Page 174 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“A rental,” I clarified. “On Mimosa Ct. I’m meeting the property manager at ten.”

Mama studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she nodded. “Good.”

“Good?”

“You heard me,” Mama said. “You need your own space. You need somewhere that’s yours. Not Amai’s. Not Kaisen’s. Not even mine. Yours.”

I felt something loosen in my chest. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“You got money for it?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I do.”

Mama didn’t ask where the money came from. She just nodded again. “Then go. And don’t let nobody talk you out of it if it feels right.”

“I won’t.”

I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door.

“Truth,” Mama called after me.

I turned back.

“You doing the right thing,” she said, her voice firm. “You taking control. Don’t let nobody make you feel bad about that.”

I nodded, my throat tight. “I won’t.”

The house on Mimosa Ct was exactly what I needed.

Mrs. Thibault was waiting for me on the front porch when I pulled up. She was a short, round woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled back into a neat bun. She wore a floral dress and sensible shoes, and she smiled warmly when I got out of the car.

“Miss Renois?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come on in, sweetheart. Let me show you around.”

She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, and I followed.

The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and fresh paint. The living room was spacious, with hardwood floors that gleamed in the morning light. The walls were painted a soft cream color, and there was a fireplace in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been used in years but could be.

“Previous tenants just moved out last week,” Mrs. Thibault said, leading me through the space. “We cleaned it top to bottom and repainted. Everything’s in good condition.”

I walked through the living room into the dining area, which opened into a small but functional kitchen. The appliances were older but clean. The countertops were laminate, not granite, but they were solid. There was a window above the sink that looked out onto the backyard.

“Upstairs are the bedrooms,” Mrs. Thibault said, gesturing toward the staircase.

I followed her up. The stairs creaked slightly under my weight, but they were sturdy.

The master bedroom was at the front of the house, with two large windows that let in plenty of light. The closet was small but manageable. The second bedroom was slightly smaller, and the third was just big enough for a nursery.

A nursery.

I stood in the doorway of that third bedroom and felt something settle inside me.

This was it.

This was where I was going to raise my baby.