Chapter One
~ Carter ~
It turned out that the little plastic sticks lied a hell of a lot less than people did. Five sticks, five identical results. The universe had a sense of humor and it was the color pink.
The bathroom in my penthouse in Fort Worth was a shrine to minimalism—white marble, slate tile, a mirror big enough to reflect all my worst decisions. The light over the vanity was less “spa retreat” and more “police interrogation,” which meant every line, bruise, and defect on my skin was thrown into high definition.
I could see the veins in my eyelids, the trembling in my jaw. But mostly I could see the test in my hand, the two lines as bold and permanent as a prison tattoo.
I braced myself against the quartz counter, not because I was dramatic but because the room had started to list sideways. For a second, I pictured the stick flying out of my hand, shattering the mirror and punctuating the moment with a dramatic rain of glass. But that would require energy, and these days my bones felt filled with sand.
The dizziness passed, replaced by the usual chorus of symptoms: morning nausea, a tongue that tasted like pennies, and a craving so perverse I’d started hiding jars of pickles in the linen closet. Last week I’d dipped a spear in Nutella and eaten it in the shower, standing under hot water so no one would hear me retch after.
Pregnant. Fucking pregnant. Like a goddamn afterschool special.
My fingers drifted to my stomach, hovering just above the waistband of my sweatpants. I didn’t look different yet, not really. But if I squinted, I could make out the faintest rise, aswelling that had no right to exist on a body maintained by intermittent fasting and shame.
I pressed my palm there, feeling for anything that could prove it was real.
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe the tests were expired, or maybe all five had been manufactured by a prank company out of Ohio. I pictured some guy in a warehouse cackling as he stamped DOUBLE POSITIVE on a case of discount tests, then shipping them straight to the CVS on 54th.
Statistically possible, right?
I turned the stick over. “Clinical Guard,” it said, in blocky sans-serif. The font of doom.
I laughed, which hurt my chest and made my stomach spasm. I grabbed the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
In the mirror, my face looked thinner than I remembered. The circles under my eyes were no longer a beauty mark, but a warning. My hair was down, damp from a too-hot shower, the color muddier than usual. I hadn’t bothered with product, so the strands clung to my temples in defeat.
For a moment, I stood frozen, like one of those forensic models of a disaster victim, preserved at the moment of impact.
Then I snapped out of it. Steele family rule: When faced with catastrophe, do not weep, do not panic, do not call for help. Clean up, dress up, show up. Preferably in something that retails for four figures.
I set the test stick on the counter, lined up neatly with its four predecessors like a firing squad. I swept them into a paper bag and knotted the top, then tossed the whole mess into the trash can under the sink. There was a brief, echoing rattle as they hit the metal, and then silence.
My phone was on the counter. I unlocked it, thumbs moving by muscle memory to the search bar. “Can pregnancy tests be wrong?” I typed. The search results were a car crash of forums,medical sites, and the odd anecdote about a woman who only discovered her baby at seven months when it kicked her so hard she thought her appendix had exploded.
I read three articles, none of which helped.
I put the phone down.
I thought about the last two months. The headaches that wouldn’t quit, the morning sprints to the toilet, the heaviness in my limbs. The cravings that started as a joke—Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I ate this ice cream with sriracha? —and escalated into a covert operation to restock the fridge every night so the housekeeper wouldn’t get suspicious.
I hadn’t told anyone. Not the doctor, not the siblings, not even the group chat I maintained for the sole purpose of sharing pictures of baby goats and conspiracy theory memes.
I hadn’t told Macon. Of course I hadn’t. The man had ghosted before the sheets cooled.
I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the thought away. No, not Macon. Not now. Not ever again.
But it was useless. The memory of that night was burned into my skull, as vivid as if it was happening in the room with me.
His hands on my hips, rough, but careful. The heat of his mouth on my skin. The way he had looked at me—not like a conquest, but like a discovery. Like he was reading my DNA, cell by cell, and finding nothing worth erasing.
And then, the next morning, nothing. No note. No trace. Just a cold spot in the hay, the barn door swinging on its hinges. I’d walked home with a limp and a mouthful of apologies I’d never get to say.
I opened my eyes, counted to ten, then reached for the faucet. The water was ice cold, but I splashed it on my face anyway, letting it shock me back to the present.
I had made it through worse. I had made it through years of being invisible, of being the family mascot, the punch line, themistake they didn’t want to admit to. I could make it through this.
