I nod, still processing the enormity of how my life has altered in a matter of minutes.
It’s not what I’d choose, but with my boy’s tiny heartbeat echoing in my ears, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it.
I’m doing this.
I’m doing it alone.
And in true Zara Beckett style—I’m going to excel at it.
Because that’s just what I do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ZARA
It’s been four and a half weeks since Dr Tessa confirmed my pregnancy.
Four and a half weeks of adjusting to the fact I’m sharing my body with a tiny human being.Mytiny human being.
Four and a half weeks of trying to accept that I am going to be responsible for another person for the next two decades, at least.
Naturally, I called Livvie the second I left Dr Tessa’s office. She and Nico spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of shock in my apartment. Livvie mourned her drinking buddy, while Nico’s primary concern was how much maternity leave I planned on taking. They sank two bottles of wine, while I ate peanut butter with a tablespoon straight from the tub.
I’m not showing. Not yet, at least, but I’ve had to go up a jean size, and my boobs are like two watermelons. Any day now, someone is bound to notice—which is why I’ve decided to break the news to my family today.
Big Beckett Sunday dinners are a regular occurrence. Sometimes we meet at James and Scarlett’s, today we’re at myparents’ place—the house I grew up in. It’s a mansion; there’s no point pretending it’s anything else. With its marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a dining table long enough to host a UN summit, it’s safe to say it’s grand.
One thing it’s not though, is quiet.
Especially on a Sunday.
My nieces and nephews are shrieking through the hallways like tiny feral wolves. James’s toddler is scaling the banister of the grand stairs like it’s Everest. Caelon’s kids are playing tag in the huge hallway, while my mother, Vivienne, is floating around filling everyone’s champagne flutes and pretending the chaos is charming instead of the reason we all drink—or used to drink, in my case.
And in a few months… there will be another child to add to the madness.
A flutter of panic ripples through me. My hand instinctively gravitates to my still-flat stomach. Fifteen weeks. Almost four months. I’m somehow growing a tiny human who has a heartbeat, arms, legs, fingers, and the audacity to already be making me cry over advertisements for baby formula.
I need to tell them.
I need to tell them now.
The housemaids have cleared the plates.
I can’t put it off any longer.
I’ve never had a serious boyfriend.
Never brought a man home.
Never even admitted to liking someone for longer than five minutes.
And now?
Now, I have to tell my family I’m pregnant with a baby whose father I don’t even know the name of.
‘Drink?’ Rian appears at my elbow, brandishing another bottle of Beckett’s Black Label, like a professional sommelier.
My stomach tightens. The smell still churns my insides. I force a polite smile. ‘No thanks. I’m good.’
