The omelet bites are a success. I file that away. Everything else can wait.
Lucy chatters about something I only half hear. I respond at the right moments, nodding, smiling, functioning.
That damn book sits on the counter in my peripheral vision. Taunting. Waiting.
And I tell myself, very carefully, that whatever my body is doing, whatever this morning is trying to tell me, will have to wait.
Because Lucy is watching.
I spend the day reading, drawing, and coloring with Lucy, avoiding all plans I’d made for today, and grateful I didn’t tell her about, thinking about how the hell this happened…
It starts with one of those invites that landed in my inbox and made me reread it three times. Faculty-only, technically. But someone adds, bring your promising students. I am promising. On paper. In practice, I am a girl who still triple-checks that she belongs in the room.
I thrifted the outfit. Of course I did. I built it piece by piece, silk blouse that still smells faintly like someone else’s perfume, tailored blazer that must’ve once belonged to a woman with money and a corner office. I steam it. I practice not tugging at the sleeves.
For once, when I walked in, no one clocked me as an accident. I fit. I listened. I took notes. I asked a question that made one of the ‘fancy professors’ pause and smile like I’ve earned something. I wasn’t the scholarship girl, or the girl sprinting away from the hell she was raised in. I was the woman who made it out and brought her brain with her.
And then there’s him.
Nerdy-hot. Quiet confidence. The kind of man who listens before he speaks.Very rare.We talked about the lecture. About theory. About things that mattered. He didn’t condescend. He didn’t explain me to myself. He looked at me like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
For one night, I let myself believe that too.
It wasn’t reckless. It felt earned. Like a reward for clawing my way to where I needed and wanted to be.
I didn’t think about consequences because I was tired of thinking about them.
Now I am in my bathroom staring at two pink lines, and that memory folds in on itself like a cruel joke.
Because I know who he is now. Not just the man from the lecture. Not just the one-night stand I let myself have because I finally felt safe enough to want something.
That’s the part that makes my stomach drop.
If he didn’t want the child, that would be clean. Painful, but clean. I could handle that. I’ve handled worse. I raised myself. I can raise a child, hell, I am. I have never doubted that for a second.
What terrifies me is the opposite.
He would fight, like Claudia’s ex… whatever he was. More than one night, but not much.
I don’t think he’s cruel, but I also think maybe, I mean, he staged the book.
Who does that? Freaking weirdo is who, but I don’t get creep vibes. I will surely address that.
He has resources I do not; he comes from a world where lawyers are preventative rather than reactive. Where custody battles are strategic, not desperate. Where his wallet weighs more than my intentions ever could.
And I am standing at his mercy, living in a house with him, a teammate, and my sister. Leaving is not an option. I have to prove I can take care of Lucy, and I cannot put her stability at risk for a child who, after doing the math, is just past the timeframe I personally feel is a choice for me, if it’s a healthy pregnancy.
My eyes burn, because I am meticulous with my time, I never waste it, yet I didn’t know… how?
I was being compensated to help someone else fight a custody battle. Watching a woman I care about brace herself against a man who thinks money equals moral authority. I see how the system tilts. I see how quickly motherhood becomes a liability instead of a virtue.
I am not naive.
That’s why my chest tightens the way it does. That’s why the fear sharpens instead of softens.
Because I didn’t sleep with a stranger. I slept with a man who could take my child from me without ever raising his voice. The irony burns so hot it feels like punishment.
I trusted myself that night. I trusted the version of me who belonged in that room. Who asked the smart question? Who was wanted, not tolerated. Now that trust I have long fought for is stained.
