My Stepmother…

I hesitated.

If I told him, would he own me somehow? That was how Darlene made the world feel now—like every choice was a trap.

He seemed to understand. He took one careful step back to give me room.

“You don’t have to trust me yet,” he said. “But you’re in bad shape, and you need a doctor.”

My hand tightened over my belly.

He noticed. His eyes flicked to the fading bruise on my cheek, the cut at the edge of my lip, the way I stood slightly bent from the weight and pain.

“Did she do this to you?”

I looked down.

That was answer enough.

He inhaled once, deeply. When he spoke again, something had changed in his tone. It was quieter, but harder.

“How far along are you?”

“Eight months,” I whispered.

His jaw flexed.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” He glanced up and down the empty road, then said, not loudly, “Miles.”

Nothing happened.

Then, from behind the old gas station, a black SUV rolled into view.

I stared.

It was spotless. Dark windows. Chrome wheels. The kind of car I had only seen outside country clubs and courthouse steps.

A second SUV followed behind it.

Both stopped in front of the house.

My breath caught in my throat.

The driver of the first SUV stepped out—a tall Black man in a charcoal suit, earpiece in, polished shoes shining even in the weak dawn light. He moved toward us with the controlled speed of somebody trained not to run unless it mattered.

“Sir?”

Sir.

The homeless man gave the slightest nod. “Call Dr. Patel. We’re going to St. Margaret’s. And notify Elena to prepare the west guest suite.”

The suited man’s gaze flicked to me, and in that instant I saw something close to alarm.