Chapter 127 Two Lines

Chapter 127 Two Lines
The apartment was quiet when Audrey woke. She lay still for a moment, listening. No voices. No Elliot.

She reached for his side of the bed. Cold.

A flicker of disappointment stirred in her chest, but she pushed it down. He had meetings today. Important ones, he'd said. Something about the merger, something about quarterly projections, something she would have known about a year ago but now existed in a world she'd stepped away from.

She was learning to be okay with that.

She padded to the kitchen, her bare feet cold on the marble floor. The sun was barely up, the sky outside the windows a pale, watery gray. She was reaching for the kettle when she noticed it.

A note, propped against the fruit bowl.

Didn't want to wake you. Call me when you're up. — E

She smiled, tucking the note into her robe pocket. She'd call him later. After tea. After she'd woken up enough to remember why she'd gotten out of bed at all.

The kettle boiled. She poured the water, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling, and tried to ignore the strange heaviness in her stomach.

It had been there for days, this dull, persistent ache. She'd blamed it on stress, on the lingering exhaustion of the past months, on the weight of finally letting herself rest. But this morning, it was worse.

She took a sip of tea. The warmth settled in her chest, but her stomach churned.

Probably nothing, she told herself. Just nerves. Just—

Her phone buzzed. Elliot's name flashed across the screen.

She answered quickly. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." His voice was warm, familiar, the kind of warmth that spread through her even when he wasn't there. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Everything okay?"

She hesitated. The ache in her stomach pulsed, a dull reminder. "Fine. Just... didn't sleep well."

There was a pause. She could picture him, frowning slightly, trying to read between the lines.

"Audrey."

"I'm fine," she said again, and this time she almost meant it. "How's the meeting?"

He let it go. She could tell he was letting it go—the slight exhale, the shift in his tone. But she knew him well enough now to know he'd come back to it later.

"Long," he said. "Boring. I'd rather be home with you."

She smiled, leaning against the counter. "You're the one who wanted to go back to work."

"I'm reconsidering."

She laughed, and the sound surprised her—light, easy, real. "Finish your meeting. I'll be here when you get back."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He lingered for a moment, the way he always did, reluctant to end the call even when there was nothing left to say. "I love you."

"I love you too."

She hung up, still smiling, and reached for her tea.

The first sip hit her stomach like a stone.

She set the cup down, pressing a hand to her abdomen, waiting for the nausea to pass. It didn't. It built, slow and insistent, until she was pushing back from the counter, stumbling toward the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before her stomach emptied itself.

She gripped the edge of the counter, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room spun. The cold porcelain was solid beneath her hands, the only thing keeping her upright.

When the world finally stilled, she stood there, trembling, waiting for the next wave.

It didn't come.

She rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face, and looked at herself in the mirror. Pale. Tired. The same face she'd been looking at for weeks, months, years.

But something was different. Something she couldn't name.

She thought about the missed appointments. The exhaustion. The way food had started to taste strange, the way she'd been reaching for tea only to set it aside, the way her body had been sending her signals she'd been too busy to hear.

She thought about the last time she'd felt like this.

The thought hit her like a wave, and she gripped the counter again, her heart suddenly loud in her ears.

No. It couldn't be…

She looked at the calendar on her phone, scrolling back, counting, her finger shaking on the screen.

Eight weeks.

The room tilted. She closed her eyes, gripping the counter, breathing.

Eight weeks.

She opened her eyes, stared at her reflection, and tried to remember the last time she'd felt like herself. The last time she'd felt normal.

It had been weeks. More than weeks. It had been—

She didn't finish the thought.



The pharmacy was crowded, the fluorescent lights too bright, the air too warm. She moved through the aisles like a ghost, her hands steady even as her heart raced, picking up the small box without looking at it, without letting herself think about what it meant.

She paid quickly, avoiding the cashier's eyes, and walked out into the cold morning air.

The box burned a hole in her pocket all the way home.



She sat on the edge of the bathtub, the box in her hands, and tried to remember how to breathe.

If it's negative, she told herself, you'll laugh about this. You'll make a joke.

She opened the box.

The instructions blurred in front of her. She read them twice, three times, until the words stopped swimming, and then she did what they said, and then she waited.

She counted the seconds. Sixty. One hundred twenty. Two hundred forty.

The timer on her phone buzzed.

She looked.

Two lines.