From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 169

**Chapter 104: This Is My Space**

I could definitely use a haircut. My hair had grown long enough to graze the tops of my breasts, a clear indicator of how long I had been neglecting my appearance. As I stood before the mirror, the reflection revealed a truth I couldn’t escape. My eyes, rimmed with red, bore witness to sleepless nights. Dark circles hung beneath them like heavy shadows, and my lips were cracked and parched, a testament to my neglect. My cheekbones jutted out sharply against my sallow skin, giving me the look of someone who had just clawed her way out of a gutter—a junkie clutching her fix.

The pill lay in the palm of my hand, small and white, almost innocuous. In my other hand, I held a glass of water, the condensation dripping down, slicking my fingers with cool beads. The choice should have been straightforward, a decision I had made countless times before without hesitation. Yet tonight, my hand trembled, betraying my inner turmoil.

I glanced down at my stomach, my palm resting over the flat expanse of skin as if I could somehow summon life from within. What if? What if Roman’s baby was already there, nestled safely in my womb? My baby.

A humorless laugh escaped my lips, the absurdity of the thought striking me. Who was I trying to fool? Magic didn’t exist. Pills didn’t just stop working because I wished them to. I had been on them for years, and if I truly wanted a shot at motherhood, I would have to stop—really stop. The very thought twisted my stomach into knots, a confusing mix of longing and guilt.

I found my gaze drifting back to the pill, my eyes landing on the trash can beside my vanity. What if I simply… didn’t take it? What if I skipped it, accidentally on purpose, and let nature take its course?

Would that make me a villain? A liar? Would Roman’s cold, unforgiving gaze pierce through me, leaving no room for forgiveness? Would he walk away, never looking back, leaving me with nothing but the weight of his child and the void of his absence?

Tears began to prick at the corners of my eyes as I wrestled with the potential betrayal. I wasn’t evil for wanting what had been taken from me, but I would be if I forced it upon him—upon us. Especially upon him, since he had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want children. If I crossed that line, I knew I would lose him forever.

My throat constricted painfully. I lifted the pill to my mouth, pressing it against my tongue.

It tasted chalky and bitter, dissolving slowly, a bitter reminder of the choices I faced. I held it there, stubbornly, my eyes locked onto my reflection. My heart raced, the rhythm too fast for comfort. I contemplated spitting it out, throwing the entire bottle in the trash. My hand hovered, the glass of water waiting like a lifeline.

I shut my eyes tightly. What am I even doing? I questioned myself. It’s only been a few weeks. Surely, we can’t both be that fertile, can we?

With a shaky breath, I tipped the glass and forced the pill down, gulping water until my throat burned. The bitterness lingered, a reminder of the choice I had made. I splashed cold water on my face, washing away the tears I refused to acknowledge. I silently vowed to schedule an appointment with my gynecologist soon. I needed to ensure that my body hadn’t betrayed Roman in ways he wasn’t prepared to handle.

—

When I finally pushed the bathroom door open, I was enveloped by his presence before I even laid eyes on him. The air was thick with his cologne—smoky, sharp, undeniably Roman. I had nearly forgotten he was here.

“I hoped you would,” I replied, my gaze dropping to the floor, my chest tightening at the sight before me. My stuffed animals—eight of them—were strewn across the carpet like forgotten relics. Roman had tossed them aside again, just as he always did. He despised them on the bed, constantly complaining that they got in his way. It was a routine I had grown accustomed to, and usually, I would tease him, laughing at his childishness. But tonight?

Tonight, it felt different. It felt cruel. It felt mean. It felt like an attack.

I sank to my knees, gathering the soft toys one by one into my arms. “Don’t do that, Roman,” I said, my voice small and barely recognizable. “That’s not nice. You’re being an asshole.”

“I hate those things,” he groaned from the bed, his irritation palpable. “Can’t you just burn them or something? They take up way too much space.”

I felt a wave of sadness wash over me as I cradled the stuffed animals, their plush bodies a reminder of my childhood innocence—a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling around us. “They mean something to me,” I whispered, my heart aching at the thought of him dismissing them so carelessly.

“Then keep them out of my way,” he replied, his tone softening slightly, but the edge of annoyance still lingered.

In that moment, I realized that this was more than just about stuffed animals. It was about space—both physical and emotional. And the thought of losing that space, that connection, made my heart ache even more.