Kimberly
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, letting the tension drain from my body in slow, deliberate exhales.
My hand still tingled where Kendrick had touched it—no, where I had guided his to my stomach. I didn’t know why I’d done that.
Maybe part of me needed him to feel what I was feeling. To know that this child, this fragile life inside me, was real. Tangible.
And maybe another part of me wanted to see if he would recoil. But he hadn’t. He’d looked stunned. Awed. Soft in a way I hadn’t seen before.
Still, I couldn’t let that moment fool me. A soft look didn’t erase the trauma, the manipulation, or the endless confusion he’d inflicted on me. I needed to stay grounded. Stay sharp. Because I was living in a manor built by a man who used chains dressed as promises
