Chapter 134 Made With Love I stand before the mirror again. Same bathroom. Same bottle of pills. Same reflection staring back at me. Only this time, I’m thinking. The other times, I was automatic—obediently swallowing what I was supposed to. Tonight, I watch my face as though it belongs to a stranger. A woman who has loved too hard and lost too often. My thumb presses against the child-proof cap. Click. The sound is very tiny, almost inaudible, yet it goes right through me loudly. I know exactly what I want now. What I’m about to do. But knowing doesn’t always stop you from wanting. I wanted this. God help me, I wanted it. I’m not taking the pills this time. I’m taking the risk. The words repeat themselves in my head until they start to sound like a joke. It’s ridiculous, irresponsible, reckless—but the ache beneath my ribs doesn’t care. Logic has never been able to strangle longing, and right now, longing is winning.This wasn’t about logic anymore. This was about need. The need to be rooted. To be kept. To belong to someone so completely that nothing could take it away. A child was permanent. A child was proof. Maybe it’s wrong to crave permanence in a world that keeps breaking me down at every opportunity. Maybe it’s foolish to want a baby when I’ve just been evicted from my apartment and I'm living out of a duffel bag in a man’s house that still doesn’t feel like mine. But I can’t help it. I want this. I want something that belongs entirely to me—and to him. My hands shake as I tilt the bottle. The white pills slide out in tiny circles. One clatters against the porcelain before falling into the toilet bowl. Then another. Then all of them. For a moment, I just watched them. Floating. Spinning. Drowning. So small, and yet they represent every moment I’ve tried to keep control, every time I’ve chosen caution over desire. Then I press the button. The water swirls, and the pills vanish into nothing. My breath leaves with them. There's no going back now. When the sound dies, I’m left in a silence so deep I can hear my own pulse in my ears. I rest my palms on the cool edge of the sink and whisper to my reflection, “It’s done.”. I’ll have to tell Roman someday. Of course I will. He deserves that. That's the least he deserves from me. But not now. Not when everything between us is fragile and… young. Not now. Later—when our love has taken root and borne fruit. When there’s proof. When there’s life. If I carried his child, he wouldn’t abandon me. He couldn’t. Not Roman. He’d stay. Because love does that — it binds you even when you wish it wouldn’t. He’ll be angry, maybe furious, maybe hurt. I expect that. I expect the accusations, the look of betrayal, the disbelief. But I also know him—his heart is too noble, too loyal, stubbornly so. The kind of man who took his responsibilities seriously, even when they hurt him. That’s what I was counting on. The man I knew. He won’t turn his back on his child, or on the woman carrying it. He’ll fight for us. For family. He’s afraid of abandonment, it lives in his bones. That fear will keep him near me. I’m not proud of that plot. It’s ugly and selfish and cruel. But it’s true. For the first time, I'm doing something I like. Something I want. Something he doesn't want. And Roman —my Roman— he truly loves me. I’d seen it in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. In the way he reached for me even when he was angry. In the way he softened when I said his name. He loved me too much to ever walk away from something we made together. And because I’m choosing something against his wishes, I decide I’ll make my own offering in return. A sacrifice for a sacrifice. I won’t go to Blackwood Manor. He doesn’t want me there anyway. I can give him that much. I’ll stay away from the ghosts of his childhood, from the people who constantly put a frown on his face. From everything he was yet to let me in on. I’ll stay away from that infuriating man and his damned birthday party. A smile creeps across my lips—small, bitter, amused at myself. Look at you, bargaining with the universe like a lunatic. Besides, if I’m right about my body’s rhythm, everything is aligning soon. Too soon for me to waste energy on social charades. I have enough to juggle. The uncertain roof over my head, the unfinished books in my library, the constant fear that love is a borrowed room with the rent already overdue. And as for Reese, if I ever see that insufferable man again, I can’t promise I won’t throttle him. The thought of his smirk alone could earn him an obituary at my hands. “Insufferable arrogant prick,” I mutter to the mirror. The air feels lighter after saying it. Like naming a demon weakens it. Maybe his one. A chaotic, lewd devil. I close the pill bottle, set it back on the shelf among the rest—vitamins, aspirin, half-used serums that promise instant miracles—and splash cold water on my face. When I step out, the bedroom is relatively dark, shadowed by the thick curtains. Roman is still asleep, face down, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. The duvet barely covers his body. He looks vulnerable like this—unarmored, human. Every time I see him asleep, I remember the first night we shared a bed as friends only and how he kept a respectful distance, as if afraid I’d blow up if he touched me without permission. A smile warms me before I can stop it. I cross the room quietly and kneel beside him, the floor cool under my knees. Gently, I lift the duvet and drape it over his body. He exhales, a low sound, and the corner of his mouth lifts—just a little. As if he's dreaming of me. Maybe he is. I press a kiss to his cheek. The faint rasp of stubble brushes my lips. “Sleep well,” I whisper. “I'll be in the kitchen.” He doesn’t stir. Maybe he hears me, somewhere in his dreams. I lingered for another heartbeat, tracing the shape of his shoulder with my eyes, tracing his lips with my thumb. Admiring the man who had successfully made me feel a variety of emotions in such a short time. I gave in and pressed my lips to his, quickly. “I love you. Thank you.” I rise, tiptoe toward the door, and close it softly behind me. The hallway greets me with its usual hush—the kind that feels heavier at night, as if this house itself is holding its breath. Barefoot, I make my way toward the kitchen. The clock ticks in silence around me, and I wince, glancing back at the closed door before moving again. I murmur to myself, half-smiling, “How did you live here all alone, Roman? So many corners for a serial killer to hide in.” The switch clicks, and the light spills across marble and into the kitchen. The kitchen gleams—too neat, too still. I head to the refrigerator, searching for something to drink, maybe the orange juice we bought together. It’s supposed to be there, along with leftovers and the same jar of olives that’s been haunting him for weeks. I walked to it and pulled the door open. A cold wave brushed my skin. Rows of neat containers stared back at me — eggs, milk, vegetables I’d bought days ago. I smiled faintly, remembering how he’d complained about grocery shopping being “domestic nonsense” but still pushed the cart while I picked out strawberries. “Forgetful man,” I murmured, shaking my head. “You’d starve without me.” The words came out light, teasing, almost fond. Domestic normalcy. So strange that it’s comforting. I lean against the counter and let the cold air touch my bare legs. My mind drifts—to how he looked earlier, tired but tender, to the way he traced circles on my back after we made love. How he whispered like he was scared, telling me not to leave him. How I promised I wouldn’t. Promises are funny things. You mean them when you say them, but sometimes you have to break one to keep another. I’m about to close the fridge when something on the counter catches my eye. Two wine glasses. For a moment, I blink, confused. We didn’t drink tonight. We haven’t opened a bottle since… Last week? My mind scrolls backward, searching for the memory, the logic. Nothing fits.My gaze drifts lower—to the cork lying a few inches away from the glass. And then further—to the far end of the counter. A bag. Polka-dot. Cream background, black dots. The printing across the front is unmistakable. I've seen it before. Made With Love from Antonio’s Kitchen to Yours. The words burn into my brain. My eyes see and recognize one word. My brain kick-starts immediately, fixated on that same word. Antonio’s.