Page 183 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“When does it stop?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“The nightmares.” He swallowed hard. “When do they stop?”

I wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him it would get better, that time would heal it, that one day he’d wake up and the terror would be gone.

But I couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

He laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

I studied him for a moment, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were still trembling slightly.

“What do you see?” I asked. “In the nightmares.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, and I thought he might shut down completely.

But then he spoke.

“Her.” His voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. “My mama. She’s-she’s on top of me. Dead. Her body’s heavy, and I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m trying to push her off, but I can’t. And I’m suffocating. Every time. I’m suffocating.”

My chest ached.

I’d known Syx’s mother had died when he was young. I’d known it was traumatic. But I hadn’t known the details—hadn’t known he’d been the one to find her, that her body had fallen on him, that he’d been trapped beneath her weight.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.

He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something shifted in his expression.

“You ever lose someone like that?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“Not like that,” I said finally. “But I lost my mom. And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.”

Syx’s brow furrowed. “How’d she die?”

“Cancer. Ovarian. It was fast—six months from diagnosis to the funeral.” I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “But I wasn’t there when she died. I was at a business meeting with my father. He didn’t tell me she’d taken a turn until it was too late.”

Syx’s jaw tightened. “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah. It was.”

We sat in silence again, the weight of our shared grief settling between us.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I had to experience my mom’s death the way you did,” I said quietly. “I think I’d be bat shit crazy.”

Syx let out a short, sharp laugh—unexpected and raw. “You think?”

I smiled despite myself. “Okay, IknowI’d be bat shit crazy.”

He laughed again, and this time it was real. The sound broke something open in the room, easing the tension just enough to breathe.