“No,” I whisper again. “No. This isn’t happening.”
Tears sting my eyes. Not from sadness, but from the kind of pressure that builds just before the dam finally gives way. My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants to escape.
Panic hits first. Not because of the baby, but because I don’t have a plan.
Then comes anger. At him—for disappearing without a word. At myself—for letting it happen. Forwantingit to happen.
I could’ve said no. I didn’t. I could’ve asked his name. I didn’t.
Now I’ll never know what to call the man who turned my life inside out and left a piece of himself behind.
Finally, grief.
Not because I don’t want the baby but because everything I’ve built—my vision, my goals, my future—all just shifted on its axis. Every late night at the library. Every scholarship form. Every hustle to prove I belonged in those lecture halls.
All of my hard work has led to this: a positive pregnancy test with two pink lines and no instructions for what to do next.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on the floor, but when I finally move, my hands feel steadier. Because one thing is already decided—I’m keeping it.
I pull myself up off the floor and stand in the middle of the room.
This baby didn’t ask to be part of my identity crisis or trauma spiral. Definitely not part of my parents’ bloodstained legacy. It’s not a complication. It’s alife.And I’m not leaving it behind the way I was left.
I may not have known who I really was growing up, but I do know who I’m going to be.
A mother.
I square my shoulders and stare at my reflection. I no longer see the scared, puking girl from ten minutes ago. I see someone who has survived the foster system, nailed Harvard, and followed a trail across the ocean with no map and no backup.
I won’t run. Not from this.
“If I have to do it alone,” I whisper, “I will.”
I towel off my face, brush my teeth again, and slip into an oversized sweatshirt that still smells faintly like home in Chicago.
By the time I sit down at the hotel desk, laptop open, I’m calm. Focused. Or at least pretending to be.
I want to draft a message to a university contact who might have access to old banking archives. My leads are thinning, and I’m desperate for something that isn’t redacted or “mysteriously” missing.
I open my inbox and freeze. A new email sits atop the list.
Subject: Offer of Employment – Ivanov Holdings
I click it open.
Dear Ms. Jones,
Thank you for your recent application and impressive credentials. After reviewing your academic record and internship history, we are pleased to extend a formal offer to interview for the Research Assistant position in our Finance Department.
Start date: Immediate, if interview is passed.
Compensation: $110,000 annually, with full benefits and relocation assistance if required.
Please reply at your earliest convenience if you choose to accept.
Sincerely,
Yuri Ivanov, CFO
