I mumble answers that probably don’t make sense, my mind too foggy to form coherent thoughts. All I can focus on is the way the ambulance sways with each turn, making my stomach lurch dangerously.
The hospital emergency room is too bright, too loud, too much. A young doctor with kind eyes and tired features guides me to an examination table, her movements efficient but gentle.
She asks more questions while checking my vitals, her pen scratching across a clipboard. I stare at the ceiling tiles and try to calculate when I last had a period.
The realization hits like a physical blow.
Eight weeks. Maybe nine. I’ve been so consumed with the Bishop’s investigation, with Diane’s threats, Isabella’s presence, and Sarah’s accusations, that I didn’t notice my body’s most basic rhythm had stopped.
The exhaustion, the nausea, the emotional volatility I attributed to stress. It all clicks into place with horrifying clarity.
“Miss Davis?” The doctor’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I’d like to run a pregnancy test. Just to rule it out.”
My throat closes completely. I manage a nod, unable to form words past the panic flooding my system.
The wait feels eternal. I lie on the examination table staring at the fluorescent lights overhead, my hands twisted together on my stomach.
A stomach that might be carrying a baby.
A baby I didn’t plan for, didn’t prepare for, can’t possibly be ready for.
My mind spins through implications faster than I can process them.
The fact that I’ve been with all three of them, that any of them could be the father.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
The doctor returns, her expression carefully neutral in that way medical professionals have when they’re about to deliver news that will change everything.
She sits on the rolling stool beside the examination table, her clipboard resting on her lap.
“The test is positive, Miss Davis. You’re pregnant. Based on your last period, I’d estimate you’re about eight weeks along.”
The words hit like stones dropping into still water, ripples spreading outward until they consume everything. I’m carrying a baby. A tiny life growing inside me that’s part of me and part of…who?
Adrian with his severe beauty and barely controlled violence?
Marcus with his protective fury and Spanish whispers?
Elijah with his angel face and filthy imagination?
I have no idea which of the three men is the father.
“Miss Davis?” The doctor’s voice is gentle, concerned. “Do you have someone I can call? The baby’s father? Family?”
I shake my head mutely. Diane would probably try to use this for blackmail. Grandma Rose is still recovering from her stroke. And thefathers—plural—are three men of God whose lives I’m about to destroy completely.
The doctor continues talking about prenatal care, about vitamins and appointments and things I should avoid. I nod at appropriate moments, but I’m not really hearing her.
All I can think about is Adrian’s face when I tell him. Marcus’s protective fury that will have nowhere to direct itself. Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes filling with fear and wonder in equal measure.
This changes everything. The Bishop’s investigation, the careful distance we’ve been maintaining, the future we’ve been trying to protect.
All of it becomes irrelevant in the face of this single fact.
I’m pregnant, and there’s no hiding it, no pretending it away, and no going back.
Maggie drives me back to the church, her hands steady on the wheel while mine shake in my lap.
