My head snaps up, my eyes locking with his. “‘It’?” I echo, my voice catching on the word. “Since when do we call my baby an ‘it’?”
Stephan’s jaw tightens, his eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t quite decipher. “Clara, be reasonable. You can’t possibly think keeping this pregnancy is a good idea. Not with everything that’s going on.”
A sudden, gut-wrenching throb pulses through me, a physical manifestation of the turmoil roiling in my gut. I press my hand harder against my stomach, as if I can shield the tiny life growing there from the harshness of his words.
Since when did we start treating this baby like an inconvenience? Like something to be discarded, tossed away like last week’s garbage?
My throat tightens, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. I blink them away furiously, refusing to let them fall. I’ve cried enough in this life.
Now… now I must decide.
My hand drifts down to my stomach again, resting lightly against the place where a new life grows.
No. Wait.
I take a step back, needing distance, needing air. My heel catches on the edge of the plush rug, and I stumble, catching myself on the back of the leather couch. The supple material is cool under my fevered skin, grounding me.
“I can’t just…” I start, my voice cracking. I clear my throat, trying again. “I can’t just ‘get rid of it,’ Stephan. This is my child we’re talking about. My flesh and blood.”
I don’t turn to look at him.
I can’t.
I’m too fucking ashamed of what I’ve done.
“Clara, think about this carefully,” Stephan urges, his deep voice cutting through the tangle of my thoughts. “You’re so young. And Maxwell, he…”
“This is none of my father’s concern!” I snap, spinning around to face him.
Dad’s going to disown me. He’s going to flip his shit if he finds out about this.
The thought sends a spike of fear through me.
My father’s never made a secret of his disdain for me, of his disappointment that I’m not the son he wanted. The heir he could mold in his own ruthless image.
And now… now I’ve gone and gotten myself knocked up by a stranger. A nameless, faceless man who made me feel more alive in one night than I have in my entire twenty-four years.
Fuck. I’m so screwed.
“I need time,” I say, hating the pleading note that creeps into my tone. “Time to think, to process. I can’t make this decision lightly.”
Stephan runs a hand over his face. For a moment, he looks tired. Old. The weight of his years and his responsibilities have etched into the lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Time is a luxury we don’t have, Clara,” he says, not unkindly. “Every day you delay, you put yourself and the b- the fetus at risk. Whoever is after you… they won’t care that you’re pregnant. If anything, it makes you more vulnerable.”
I flinch at the word ‘fetus,’ at the clinical detachment in his voice. But I can’t deny the truth in his words. My hand trembles where it rests on my stomach, fear and uncertainty warring within me.
“I know,” I whisper, my voice indistinct over the sudden roaring in my ears. “I know you’re right. But I can’t… I need…”
Stephan sighs.
He steps closer, his large hands coming to rest on my shoulders. The weight of them is comforting, grounding. I stare out the window, not really seeing the glittering lights of the city spread out below.
“Clara…” he starts, then trails off, as if he’s not sure what to say. Whatcanhe say? There are no easy answers here, no simple solutions.
I shrug out from under his hands, wrapping my arms around myself.
Suddenly, I feel very small.
