Chapter 21: Pregnant?

Under Rhea's firm insistence, Sophie found herself half-pushed, half-led out of the office, as if she had been escorted against her will.

By the time she stood in the middle of the hospital's main lobby, her thoughts churned like muddy water—heavy, disoriented. She couldn't recall how she'd filled out the forms or how she'd ended up outside the obstetrics clinic.

Around her, pregnant women and their partners moved in and out. Some wore smiles. Others carried worry in their eyes. None of it felt like part of her world.

She felt like a traveler who had stepped into the wrong era, lost and out of place.

"Sophie Turner."

The nurse's voice cut through the haze, pulling her back.

She drew a deep breath and walked into the exam room. The doctor asked a few questions, then handed her a small plastic cup with her name on it, pointing toward the sampling area beside the room.

"Once you're done, place it in the sealed cabinet there."

Sophie took the cup, her mind blank.

She stepped into the sampling area, moving as if her soul had been drained. When she came out, with the sample in hand, a hurried woman collided with her. The cup almost slipped from her fingers.

"Sorry!" the woman blurted, her face tight with urgency.

Sophie turned toward the counter to double-check her label, but the woman was quicker. She pressed an identical cup into Sophie's hand, already labeled. "Take mine. I haven't used it. You go ahead—I'll get another."

It seemed easier than waiting for a new one. Sophie placed the cup into the cabinet without a second thought.

She didn't see the woman turn the corner and make an "OK" gesture to someone over her phone.

The wait for results stretched painfully. Each minute felt longer than the last.

Sitting on a cold chair, Sophie twisted the hem of her jacket between her fingers. She kept telling herself it wasn't possible—just gastroenteritis. She was imagining things.

But when the thin sheet of paper was handed to her, every fragile reassurance shattered.

At the top, bold letters burned into her eyes: [Pregnancy Test: Positive.]

The doctor met her gaze and added, "Based on the blood test, you're about eight weeks along."

Eight weeks. The timing fit.

The paper seemed impossibly heavy in her hands. Her blood seemed to stop flowing. A low hum filled her ears, cutting out all other sound.

She didn't remember leaving the hospital. She didn't remember the trip back to her small apartment.

By the time she sat on the couch, the city outside was glowing with a thousand lights. Her world was dark.

She stayed still, clutching the report until the edges crumpled under her grip.

She was carrying Sebastian's child.

The thought wrapped around her chest, squeezing until she could barely breathe.

What was she supposed to do? Tell him?

She could already see his cold eyes, hear the sharp edge in his voice. He would think she was using the baby to trap him. He'd throw money at her, tell her to take care of the problem.

The humiliation of that image made her stomach twist.

Her life was already a mess—family debts, walking a tightrope at work. Now, there was a child she didn't know how to fit into that chaos.

She dropped her face into her hands, shoulders trembling. Tears slid silently between her fingers.

She didn't know how long she cried. When the tears dried, her gaze fell again on the report.

Fear wouldn't solve anything. She reached down, pressing a tentative hand to her flat stomach.

Inside, there was a life. Her child. Not for anyone else. Not a bargaining chip.

Something fierce and unfamiliar stirred in her chest.

Her life was already a mess. One more weight wouldn't drag her down any further.

She exhaled slowly, folded the report in half, then again, and tucked it deep into the bottom drawer.

She would keep this baby.

The exhaustion and strain finally broke her. Without even washing up, she curled on the couch, still in her clothes, and fell into a heavy sleep.

Her dreams were a jumble—Sebastian's cold stare, Laura's tearful pleading, and finally, the image of the report, "Positive" glaring back at her like prison bars she couldn't escape.

She didn't know how long she'd been trapped in that dream when the sharp, urgent sound of the doorbell jolted her awake.

Sophie sat up, heart pounding, sweat cooling on her forehead.

She shook off the fog and dragged herself to the door. Through the peephole, she saw two familiar faces.

Samuel and Mireille.

She hesitated, then opened the door.

"Sophie! Finally! You haven't answered your phone—we thought something happened!" Mireille started to scold, but her tone shifted instantly to worry when she saw Sophie's pallor. "God... you're so pale. Are you sick?"

Samuel frowned, stepping inside with a takeout bag. Without asking, he guided her toward the couch. "You haven't been eating, have you? We brought porridge from your favorite place. Eat while it's hot."

Their concern was a sudden warmth, breaking through the wall she'd kept up all day.

She watched them setting the food on the coffee table, her throat tightening. Her eyes burned.

"What is it?" Mireille noticed, setting down her chopsticks and sitting beside her. She patted Sophie's hand gently. "What happened? Did someone hurt you? Tell us."

Samuel stopped moving, watching her closely.

Sophie bit her lip, shaking her head. But the weight inside her was too much to carry alone.

She reached into the drawer, pulling out the crumpled report, and handed it to Mireille.

Mireille took it, puzzled. Samuel leaned in to read.

When their eyes caught the words, both froze.

"Positive... pregnancy... about eight weeks..." Mireille read aloud, her voice low, stunned. She looked at Sophie. "This... is yours?"