I'm Pregnant

Pregnancy: six weeks.

The black ink on the ultrasound report blurred as my hands trembled. I stared at the medical assessment, the confirmation locking the breath in my throat. A cold weight pressed down on my chest. Six weeks. I scrambled backward through the calendar, the math brutally simple. We had done it just once. One brief encounter, and somehow, this life had taken root inside me.

Panic surged hot and fast through my veins. What was I supposed to do now?

My mind snapped to my husband, Damian Ashford. If I handed him this piece of paper, he would never view it as a miracle or an accident. He would see it as a calculated trap. In his eyes, I would solidify my role as a shameless, manipulative woman using an unborn child to hold him hostage. He would assume I got pregnant on purpose to sabotage our impending divorce. The thought of his disgust twisted my stomach into knots.

I shoved the crumpled ultrasound report deep into my leather bag. Escaping the smell of hospital antiseptic, I pushed through the glass doors and fled into the glaring afternoon daylight.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Parked right outside the hospital entrance sat a pristine, shiny black Maybach. The tinted passenger window was rolled down just a fraction, but it was enough for me to recognize the sharp, uncompromising profile of the man in the driver’s seat.

Damian.

This was wrong. An unprecedented break in our routine. I was supposed to finalize the business contract with Director Mercer on my own. Damian offering me a ride—especially to the hospital—set my nerves on fire. I crossed the pavement, pulling open the heavy passenger door, and slipped into the luxurious leather seat. The intimidating scent of his cedarwood cologne filled the confined space.

I pulled the freshly signed contract from my folder and held it out to him. Damian did not even bother to open his eyes. He leaned back against the headrest, radiating a chilling detachment.

"Is it done yet?" he demanded, his voice hoarse and grating against the quiet interior.

"Yes," I confirmed, giving a quick nod even though he wasn't looking. "Director Mercer sends his personal regards."

Damian ignored the paperwork. He did not glance at the signature or acknowledge Mercer's greetings. Instead, he reached forward and started the powerful engine, the car rumbling to life beneath us.

"You take full responsibility for the rest of this case," he ordered, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation.

I nodded again in silent acquiescence. Over the span of our two-year marriage, swallowing my own voice and bending to his will had morphed into my second nature.

The Maybach glided away from the curb, merging smoothly into the traffic heading toward the downtown district. As the city buildings blurred past my window, the anxiety I thought I buried clawed its way back up my throat. It skyrocketed to an unbearable peak. My fingers gripped the strap of my bag so tightly that my knuckles turned white. My palms felt slick with nervous sweat. The ultrasound report burned like a live coal through the fabric.

I turned my head, studying his face. His jaw was clenched, his gaze locked on the road ahead. He was a wall of ice. But I had to tell him. I could not hide this forever. Gathering every fractured piece of courage I had left, I broke the heavy, oppressive silence.

"Damian!"

"Speak!" he replied. A flat, emotionless command devoid of even a fraction of conjugal warmth.

I drew in a deep, fortifying breath, bracing my shaking shoulders. I opened my mouth to confess the truth about the baby.

Before a single syllable could leave my lips, the sharp, shrill ring of his cell phone shattered the tension. Damian grabbed the phone from the console. He glanced at the screen, and the shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. He answered the call.

"Sienna, what happened?"

The tender warmth flooding his deep voice felt like a physical blade plunging straight into my chest. He sounded urgent. He sounded like a man who actually cared. It was a brutal, unyielding reminder that Damian possessed a heart, but his kindness was an exclusive luxury reserved for Sienna Briggs.

I could hear the faint sound of Sienna’s distressed voice echoing through the receiver. Whatever she said, it hit him hard. Damian slammed his foot on the brakes. The tires squealed as the Maybach jerked to a harsh stop in the middle of the downtown street.

"Alright, I will be there in a moment," he reassured her, his tone dripping with protective urgency. "Just stay exactly where you are."

The second the call disconnected, the warmth vanished. The tender man from a second ago evaporated without a trace, replaced by the ruthless stranger I married. He swiveled his head to face me, his dark eyes radiating a frigid, undeniable hostility.

"Get out of the car!" he barked.

It was an ironclad order. Compelled by his sheer authority and the familiar sting of rejection, I swallowed my massive secret down like shattered glass. I grabbed my bag, pushed the door open, and stepped out onto the unforgiving pavement.

I stood stranded on the sidewalk, watching the taillights of his Maybach speed away and blend into the heavy city traffic. He abandoned me without a second thought, racing to Sienna's side.

A bitter smile touched my lips as I contemplated the reality of our union. This marriage was never founded on love. It was a cage, a forced arrangement dictated by the late Old Master Ashford on his deathbed two years ago. For twenty-four months, Damian treated me with utter indifference, punishing me for a vow he never wanted to make. Now that the Old Master was deceased, the chains were broken. Damian had already drafted the divorce papers. They sat waiting on his desk, ready for my signature to end this pathetic facade. Sienna was the true master of his heart. I was nothing but a temporary obstruction he could not wait to bulldoze.

By the time I navigated my way back to our desolate, silent villa, the night had shrouded the city. The massive house felt more like a mausoleum than a home. My stomach churned, the early pregnancy symptoms robbing me of any desire to eat. I bypassed the kitchen, retreating directly to my solitary bedroom.

I changed my clothes and crawled under the cold sheets. The house was dead quiet. I closed my eyes, drifting in a hazy state of semi-consciousness, my mind running in exhaustive circles.

Suddenly, a sound pierced the silence.

I opened my eyes in the dark. My ears strained, catching the faint but distinct crunch of tires on the driveway. A car engine cut off in the front yard.

I sat up, my heart doing a treacherous, confused flutter. Damian? Did he return to the villa instead of spending the night comforting Sienna?