CHAPTER 183

CHAPTER 183
LILY POV

The days dragged on as if time had decided to torture me slowly.

Every morning I woke up with the same feeling: a weight on my chest, my hand automatically going to my still-flat belly, and my mind repeating the same cruel countdown. Eight weeks. Nine weeks. Ten weeks. Meanwhile, the three to eight days promised for Ashley’s NIPP results felt endless. I lived in constant limbo — between the fear that the test would confirm Ashley was pregnant with Samuel’s baby and the even greater fear that my own secret would start to show.

I had gained one more week in my pregnancy count. A whole week of controlled nausea, looser clothes, and looking in the mirror without seeing anything yet. But I could feel it. I felt the different kind of tiredness, the more sensitive breasts, the hunger that came and went suddenly. And the worst part: the constant fear that someone would notice.

Every day after school, I would come home and perform the same ritual.

I’d enter quietly, go upstairs, and head straight to my dad and Samantha’s room. Their computer was always on, sitting on the large desk. Samantha had given me the password months ago “in case of emergency.” I had never used it for anything so invasive. Until now.

I would sit in her chair, open the browser, and go straight to the email. I’d search for messages from the clinic. Refresh the page several times. Nothing. Every day the same mix of disappointment and relief. The result still hadn’t arrived.

But I kept going. Day after day. A silent, obsessive ritual.

On the eighth day, when I opened the email, something different appeared.

It wasn’t the NIPP result.

It was an email with a subject line that made my blood run cold:

“Samuel and Lily – Final Report”

The sender was a name I didn’t recognize: “Elite Private Investigations.”

My heart raced. I hesitated for a second, but I clicked.

It was a private detective billing for services rendered over the past few months. The email listed dates, times, and amounts. There were attachments. Many attachments.

With trembling hands, I opened the first one.

Photos.

Photos of me and Samuel.

The two of us at Navy Pier. The two of us at Maggie Daley Park. The two of us leaving Gallery Cabaret after I sang. The two of us in his car, parked in front of the school. A photo of me entering his room at night.

My stomach turned.

I kept opening them. Detailed reports. Timetables of when I left school. Locations where Samuel picked me up.

Samantha knew.

She knew everything.

I went back to the inbox and frantically searched for “Samuel” and “Lily.” I found dozens of old emails. I opened them one by one, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Emails between Samantha and the detective. Monthly reports. Photos. Audio recordings of conversations I didn’t even remember having in public. Even messages exchanged between Samantha and someone named “Clara” — her assistant — asking to monitor “Samuel’s behavior with the girl.”

She didn’t just know.

She had us followed.

She had paid someone to watch our every move.

I felt betrayed in a way I never thought possible. Samantha — my father’s wife, who treated me with affection, who said she saw me as a daughter — had hired a detective to spy on us. She knew Samuel and I were together. She knew about the night we spent together. She knew everything.

And yet, she had never said a word.

She had just stayed quiet. Watching. Waiting.

I opened another old email. In it, Samantha wrote to the detective:

“I need concrete proof. Anything that shows they are romantically or sexually involved. The more detailed, the better. This could destroy the family if not controlled.”

My chest hurt so much I had to lean on the desk.

She knew.

She had always known.

I closed all the emails, cleared the history, and left my dad’s room as if I had seen a ghost.

I went downstairs slowly, my whole body trembling. Samantha was in the kitchen, preparing something for dinner. When she saw me, she smiled — that warm smile I had always thought was sincere.

“You’re home early today. Want to help set the table?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile back.

“Sure. I’ll help.”

I entered the kitchen and started picking up the cutlery, pretending everything was fine. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the forks beside the plates. I watched Samantha out of the corner of my eye — the way she moved naturally, as if she hadn’t just destroyed the little trust I still had in her.

While placing the glasses on the table, I broke the silence, trying to keep my voice casual:

“So… has Ashley’s result come in yet?”

Samantha paused for a second, holding a serving dish. She looked at me with surprise, but quickly masked it.

“Not yet. Why?”

I continued arranging the napkins, trying to sound as light as possible.

“I was just wondering if I’m going to be an aunt or not.”

The words left my mouth with frightening ease. Aunt. As if it were something simple, something normal. As if I weren’t carrying another secret inside me, a secret that could make that word even more complicated.

Samantha gave a slight, almost nostalgic smile and placed the serving dish on the table.

“It’s true. I hadn’t stopped to think about that either… that I might become a grandmother.”

Grandmother.

The word hung in the air between us like a silent bomb.

I felt such a strong tightness in my chest that I almost dropped the glass I was holding. Grandmother. Samantha could be the grandmother of two children at the same time — one from Ashley and one from me.

I forced another smile, pretending the idea amused me.

“It’s weird to think about, isn’t it? You’re still so young.”

Samantha laughed softly, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

“Yeah. Life takes strange turns.”

I continued setting the table, my heart beating far too hard. Every movement was mechanical. Pick up the plate, place the napkin, align the fork. Inside, I was screaming. Samantha knew about me and Samuel. She knew we had been involved. And now she was there, calmly talking about becoming a grandmother, while I carried a secret that could blow everything up.

I wondered if she already suspected me. If those attentive looks, those questions about how I was feeling, were just motherly concern or something more. If she had already ordered someone to watch me again.

“Lily?” Samantha called, pulling me from my thoughts. “Are you okay? You seem distant.”

I blinked and forced another smile.

“I’m fine. Just tired from school.”

She looked at me for another second, as if trying to read something on my face. Then she nodded.

“If you need to talk about anything, you know you can talk to me.”

I nodded, but inside I wanted to scream. Talk? How could I talk to the woman who had spied on us? To the woman who knew everything and never said a word? To the woman who might now become the grandmother of my child without even imagining it?

My dad arrived shortly after and we sat down for dinner. The conversation flowed about trivial things — work, the weather, weekend plans. I ate little, answered when asked, but my mind was far away. Every time Samantha smiled or Doug made a joke, I felt the weight of the secret growing.

Until Samantha’s phone pinged with a notification.

The sound was simple, but it seemed to echo through the entire room. Samantha stopped mid-sentence, picked up the phone that was beside her plate, and looked at the screen. Her face changed immediately. Her eyebrows furrowed, her lips tightened. She read the notification in silence for a few seconds.

“It’s the NIPP result email,” she said, her voice low, almost neutral.

Doug stopped eating and straightened in his chair.

“And?”

Samantha didn’t answer right away. Her fingers slid across the screen as she opened the email. I watched her every movement, my heart beating so hard I was afraid they could hear it. My whole body was tense. My hands were sweating. The nausea I thought I had under control came back strong, but I held it back.

Samantha read the entire content. Her eyes scanned the lines. I saw the exact moment she absorbed the information. Her shoulders tensed. Her breathing changed. She looked up and stared directly at Doug.

Her voice came out calm, but heavy with weight:

“Paternity Probability: 99.99%. Samuel is the father of the baby.”

The silence that fell over the table was absolute.

Doug blinked, as if he needed a second to process. Then he let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face.

“Shit…” he muttered.

I froze. The spoon slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate with a metallic sound. 99.99%. Almost one hundred percent. There was no longer any doubt. Ashley was pregnant with Samuel’s baby. One of his babies was growing inside her.

And I… I was carrying one too.

Two lives. The same father. Two realities colliding at the same dinner table.

Samantha continued staring at her phone, as if she were still rereading the email to make sure.

“The lab confirmed it. There’s no margin for error. The fetal DNA matches Samuel’s.”

She shook her head, her expression hardening.

“I can’t believe this. After everything we did for him… after Juilliard, after Paris… he still manages to cause problems even from afar.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was closed. Tears burned my eyes, but I held them back with all my strength. If I cried now, they would ask why. And I had no answer I could give.

Doug sighed, resting his chin between his hands.

“We’re going to have to deal with this. Her parents want Samuel to take responsibility. They’re going to want contact with him in Paris.”

Samantha snorted.

“Responsibility? He can barely take responsibility for his own life. Now he’s going to have to take responsibility for a child?”

I lowered my gaze to my plate, the pasta already cold. My stomach churned. I imagined Ashley with her growing belly. I imagined Samuel receiving the news in Paris. I imagined him coming back here to take responsibility for a child with her.

And me? What was I going to do with my baby? How was I going to tell them I was also pregnant? That the same man who had gotten Ashley pregnant had also gotten me pregnant?

The nausea rose strongly. I stood up quickly, the chair scraping the floor.

“Excuse me. I’m not feeling well.”

Doug frowned.

“Lily, you barely ate again.”

“I’m going upstairs,” I answered, already walking toward the stairs.

Samantha called my name, concerned, but I didn’t stop. I ran upstairs, entered my room, and locked the door.

I fell to my knees on the floor, hugging my belly tightly as the tears finally fell.

99.99%.

Samuel was the father of Ashley’s baby.

And he was also the father of mine.

I caressed my belly, crying softly.

“What am I going to do with you?” I whispered.

No answer came.

Only the silence of the room and the crushing weight of the truth I still couldn’t tell anyone.