Page 66 of Sexting my Bratva Daddies

I checked the time.

Ten minutes.

My lungs decided they didn’t know how to work.

No time to leave.

I opened my phone and navigated to the grocery delivery app.

The office ordered lunch twice a week, and I loved their food. No. I couldn’t use that app.

The office received receipts that had to be filed. I changed to the Dash app and ordered through them, selecting one of the local grocery stores.

It took five minutes to pick through the options, select what looked like a normal delivery order, then added what I really needed.

Thirty-five minutes.

Oh, God.

I put my phone in the drawer and stood when my computer notified me that Viktor’s client had arrived.

Thirty minutes later, with all three men in the middle of meetings, a ding on my computer told me my delivery was downstairs.

Deep breath. And don’t act like anything is wrong.

I rushed down, took the bag, tipped the driver, and escaped upstairs.

Leaving the food on my desk, I took refuge in the small, personal bathroom at the end of the hallway.

The single-occupancy room was my best option at secrecy. “Okay.” I met my wide eyes in the mirror. “It’s okay. No matter what this says. It’s okay.”

The silence in the bathroom was as close to an answer as I’d ever get. Somewhere down the hallway, a phone rang twice and stopped. Not my phone. Not my cell or the office phone. Whose phone? Not my problem.

I tore open the box and read the directions.

It recommended a first thing in the morning situation, but I didn’t have the patience to wait, and no way in hell I’d carry this around all day and hope that I managed to hide it from Misha and the others.

They’d know something was up if I didn’t figure out how to cover my anxiety. Knowing for sure would help. I was sure of that.

I followed the instructions and set the test on the counter, then paced. The bathroom gave me enough room to take three steps before I hit a wall. Three steps in each direction made me dizzy before I made it a minute.

My phone dinged, the timer setting my heart aflutter.

Aflutter.

What a funny word. I ignored my internal monologue and lunged for the test.

My palm hit it, sending it skipping into the sink. “No.” I snatched it up. “Not like it would fall down drain, Peyton. Calm down.” Right. Calm. I closed my eyes, sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold, and peeked through one eye.

Positive. All the air rushed out, bending me double with my hands on my knees.

My ears rang so loudly, it reminded me of a train whistle. Oh, shit. Did that mean I was about to pass out? I couldn’t pass out. I might hit my head.

Someone would have to come find me.

They’d find me on the floor holding a positive pregnancy test. That would ruin my telling all of my men on my own terms.

Positive. I sat on the closed toilet lid and held the test in both hands.