[Ashbourne General Hospital – Obstetrics & Gynaecology
Clinic]
The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, thick and
suffocating, mingling with the faint metallic tang of fear. Elara's fingers dug
into the crinkly examination paper beneath her, the edges tearing under her
nails. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the muffled voices from the
hallway. Across the desk, Dr. Langley adjusted her wire-framed glasses, her
expression carefully neutral—the practiced calm of someone who delivered
life-altering news every day.
"When was your last sexual encounter?"
The question hung between them, sharp as a scalpel. Elara's
grip tightened around the strap of her Chanel tote, the fabric biting into her
palm. Twenty-two days ago. The memory flashed—Silas's hands on her hips,
the silk sheets of the penthouse crumpling beneath them, his low laugh in the
dark. And now... nothing. He didn't pick up or return any of the calls,
vanished like smoke, leaving only the ghost of his touch.
"Twenty-two days ago," she admitted, her voice
barely above a whisper.
Dr. Langley nodded, tapping her pen against the lab report.
"And your last period?"
Elara's breath hitched. Shit. Her cycle had always been
clockwork-precise—until Grandpa's funeral last month. Grief had blurred the
days, but now, the math was undeniable. "The seventeenth. Of last
month."
A pause. The doctor's expression didn't change, but
something in her eyes shifted—pity, maybe, or the clinical detachment of
someone who had seen this story too many times. "That puts you at five
weeks. The embryo's still small, but your hCG levels are consistent with early
pregnancy."
Elara's stomach lurched. "Wait." She leaned
forward, desperation clawing at her throat. "I made him use protection.
How is this possible? Could the test be wrong?"
Dr. Langley exhaled, ticking off possibilities like a
grocery list. "Condoms are effective, but not perfect. Slippage, breakage,
improper storage—any of those could lead to failure."
Each word was a knife twisting deeper. Not the whole
process of using. The memory surged—Silas's fingers brushing her thigh, the
rustle of foil, his murmured "Relax, little wildcat." She'd watched
him roll it on. Seen the discarded packet in the morning. Impossible.
"If you're uncertain," the doctor offered gently,
"we can retest here, or you can wait until six weeks for an ultrasound
confirmation."
"No." Elara stood abruptly, the chair screeching
against the linoleum. "That won't be necessary. Thank you."
Her voice was steadier than she felt. The doctor hesitated,
then nodded, sliding a pamphlet across the desk. "Take your time. The
options are all here if you need them."
Elara didn't touch it. She turned on her heel and walked
out, the door clicking shut behind her like a verdict.
[Outside – Clinic Waiting Room]
The air was thick with the cloying scent of floral perfume
and antiseptic—too sweet, too sterile, like life and death holding hands.
Expectant mothers glowed under their partners' doting gazes, their hands
resting on barely-there baby bumps, while teenagers clutched magazines with
white-knuckled grips, their faces streaked with silent tears. Joy and dread,
side by side. Separated only by the thin walls of fate.
Elara stumbled past them, her lungs burning as if filled
with shards of glass. Five weeks. A clump of cells. A consequence.
Silas Thorne's consequence.
Rage—hot, blinding, electric—flooded her veins, drowning out
the fear. Before logic could stop her, before the trembling in her hands could
betray her, she threw her arm out and flagged a taxi.
"Rosewood Mountain Estate," she hissed, sliding into
the backseat. "Now."
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror, but one
look at her storm-gray eyes—sharp enough to cut glass—and he hit the gas
without another word.
Elara clenched her fists in her lap, her nails biting
crescents into her palms.
He did this. His carelessness. His arrogance. He doesn't get
to disappear.
[Rosewood Mountain Estate – Gates]
The taxi idled at the foot of the wrought-iron gates—a
fortress of old money and secrets, its spires cutting into the storm-gray sky
like knives. Elara barely glanced at the exorbitant fare, shoving a wad of
crumpled bills at the driver.
"Wait here," she ordered, her voice sharp as
shattered glass.
Before she could even approach the stone-faced guard, the
smooth purr of a luxury engine sliced through the silence.
A vintage Rolls-Royce. Forest-green. Gleaming.
His car.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Look me in the eye, you
bastard. Tell me how a condom just 'breaks.'
She stormed toward the rear window, her heels clicking like
a countdown to detonation.
The tinted glass slid down.
Not Silas.
A little girl—no older than ten, with silky dark hair and
eyes like liquid amber (his eyes)—peered out at her.
"Hello?" The girl's voice was sweet, curious.
"Are you lost?"
Elara's fury evaporated like smoke.
"I... need to speak with Silas Thorne," she
managed, her throat tight.
The girl's face brightened, a dimple flashing in her cheek.
"Oh! Daddy's not home." She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her
voice like they were sharing a secret. "He took his girlfriend to
Switzerland! Skiing, I think." She rolled her eyes—his exasperated,
dramatic eye roll. "I wanted to go, but Daddy said it's 'adult
time.'"
Girlfriend. Skiing. Adult time.
The words detonated in Elara's skull. The world tilted. Her
fingers dug into the car door, her knuckles bleaching white.
"I'm Annabelle!" the girl chirped, oblivious to
the nuclear bomb she'd just dropped. "Want me to tell Daddy you stopped
by? Who are you?"
Who am I? Elara's mind spun. The one-night stand
he forgot? The fool carrying his 'accident'?
"No," she choked out. "It's... fine."
A last, desperate shred of pride made her ask: "Is
Ethan here? His assistant?"
Annabelle shook her head, her ponytail swaying. "Nope!
He went with them." Then, with a sudden, unsettling shrewdness, she tilted
her head. "Are you Ethan's girlfriend? He never brings girls home."
Elara's laugh was brittle. "No," she whispered.
"Just... tell them no one came."
She turned and fled to the taxi, Annabelle's cheerful
"Bye, pretty lady!" chasing her like a taunt.
[Chloe's Rental Apartment – Ashbourne City Centre]
The radiator hissed feebly in the apartment she shared with
Chloe, the warmth doing little to cut through the chill settling in her bones.
Empty. Cold. Just like her heart.
Elara sank onto the couch, the lab report crumpled in her
fist. Five weeks pregnant. Daddy's not home.
Silas's face flashed behind her eyelids—the sharp jaw, the
mocking curve of his lips as he'd pinned her wrists that night. "You're
exquisite when you're desperate." Had he laughed with his girlfriend
later? Compared their moans? Told her about the reckless one-night stand he'd
already forgotten?
A sob ripped from her throat. Then another. Hot tears
splattered the damning paper, blurring the words "VIABLE INTRAUTERINE
PREGNANCY."
Stupid. So stupid. She'd known he was poison. A man who
collected companies—and women—like vintage cars. Yet she'd melted under his
touch, believing, for one reckless night, she could be more than a transaction.
Her hand drifted to her stomach. Flat. Innocent. Hostage to
a man lounging on some Alpine slope, clinking champagne flutes with his lover.
What now?
The question echoed in the frigid silence. Keep it? A
permanent chain to a ghost? End it? Erase the proof of her naivety?
Outside, rain sheeted against the grimy window, the world
beyond blurred into indistinct shapes. Elara curled tighter into herself, the
paper clutched like a grenade against her chest.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Silas Thorne was choosing ski
slopes.
And she was here—crying over an uncertain future, alone.