The Mark of Chance••√•• Pure Love

chapitre : 9

The journey back from the hospital was a blur. Marina remembered neither the streets they crossed, nor the color of the sky, nor the music that must have been blaring from the taxi radio. A single word looped in her skull, each syllable a hammer blow: pregnant. It echoed, distorted, took on monstrous proportions. Preg-nant. A state that usually evoked joy, anticipation, love. For her, it was a verdict, a biological time bomb.

She opened the door to her studio and slipped inside like a thief, locking it behind her as if she could lock reality out. The silence of the apartment felt like a slap. It was too normal, too consistent with her life before. Nothing had changed, and yet, everything was different. She slid down to the floor, her back against the door, and burst into tears. They weren't tears of sadness, or joy. They were tears of pure terror, of absolute despair.

Her mind, despite the shock, was racing at a frantic pace, projecting onto the screen of her closed eyelids the faces of those she would have to confront.

Her mother, first, with her eyes full of worried kindness. "A child, sweetheart! But... and the father?" How could she answer? "There is no father, Mom. Well, yes there is, but he's your daughter's husband." She could see the disappointment, the confusion, then the shame coloring her gaze. Her mother, so proud of her daughters, faced with such a scandal.

Her father, silent, his face closing off, disappointed, helpless. The look he would give her would never be the same. She would have become the daughter who shattered the family.

And Léna... Léna. A wave of nausea, more psychological than physical, twisted her stomach. Her sister's fury, her already pathological jealousy, transformed into pure, lashing hatred. She had stolen her husband's love, in thought. Now, she would steal her place by carrying his child. In Léna's eyes, it would be the ultimate betrayal, the living, growing proof of her failure. Marina shuddered, imagining the screams, the accusations, the threats. Léna would be capable of anything to destroy this pregnancy, or at least, to destroy her.

And Chris.

Her heart constricted painfully. Chris. The man whose silence and cowardice had partly led to this situation. How to tell him? "You remember that towel? Well, it had a little one. Our little one." To see his gaze, he, the man so calm, so controlled, faced with this impossible reality. Stupefaction? Horror? Terror? And then what? Responsibility? A sense of duty that would push him to leave Léna? For her? For the child? She didn't want that. She didn't want a man who would come out of obligation, bound by blood and guilt. She wanted the love he had confessed on the USB key, pure and entire, not this sham imposed by a biological accident.

"I can't," she whispered into the apartment's silence. "I can't do that to them."

Harming her sister's marriage, even if it was a facade, even if it was built on blackmail and lies, was unbearable to her. She would be the villain, the seductress, the b***h who got her sister's husband knocked up. The weight of that judgment, the stares, the whispers, suddenly felt heavier to bear than the pregnancy itself.

Trapped in her thoughts, suffocated by loneliness, she grabbed her phone. Her trembling fingers scrolled through her contacts before stopping on a name. Paul. Her colleague, her friend. The only person, outside of this poisoned family circle, who had offered her a hand without ulterior motives.

The phone rang twice before he picked up.

"Marina? Is everything alright?" His voice was warm, immediately concerned.

That simple, benevolent tone broke the last barriers in her. The words tumbled out in a disordered flood, interspersed with sobs. She didn't tell him everything, of course. Not the father's name. Just the essentials: she was pregnant. It was an accident. An impossible accident she couldn't explain. And that the father... couldn't be in her life.

"I'm lost, Paul. I'm so scared. Scared of what people will say. Scared of my family. I... I don't know what to do."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, a silence that was neither heavy nor awkward, but thoughtful.

"Marina, listen to me," he said finally, his voice firm and gentle. "You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone."

She gripped the phone tighter, like a lifeline.

"It's your body, your choice. No one has the right to judge you. No one." He paused. "And if you decide to keep it... I'll be there."

She held her breath. "Wh... what do you mean?"

— "I mean I can help. Go with you to appointments, carry your groceries when you're tired, be there for you. And for this child." His voice grew lower, more serious. "If you'll let me... people don't need to know I'm not the father. They can think what they want. I will be there, for you, and for him. Or for her."

The proposition was so immense, so unexpected, it took her breath away. An offer of protection, of normality, thrown like a bridge over the chasm opening at her feet. It wasn't a declaration of love, it was more than that. It was a promise of loyalty, a pact of unconditional friendship. Tears of a different kind, made of gratitude and immense relief, flooded her face.

"Paul... I... I don't know what to say. It's... thank you. Thank you."

"Don't say anything. Think about it. Take your time. But know the option is on the table."

They hung up a few minutes later. Marina, still sitting on the floor, felt a tiny fraction of the panic dissipate. She was no longer completely alone. There was a hand extended. A way out, perhaps.

She stood up, heavy but determined, and walked to the window. Night had fallen, the city lights blinked, indifferent to her drama. She placed a hand on her stomach, where a tiny, improbable life had taken root.

A storm was coming. A storm of questions, of stares, of judgments, of pain. She knew it. Facing her family, seeing Chris's face, enduring Léna's hatred... each step would be an ordeal.

But as she gently stroked the still-flat skin of her abdomen, a new sensation, tenuous but fierce, was born within her. It was a spark of courage, a primal instinct overriding the fear.

"No matter the storm," she whispered to the child growing inside her, "I am ready to fight for you."

It wasn't a reasonable choice. It was an oath. An oath made in solitude and terror, but which carried the raw strength of a mother's love. She didn't know how she would manage. She didn't know if she would accept Paul's offer, or how she would face the coming months. But a decision had been made, etched into her flesh and her soul.

She would keep her child. The fruit of chance, of a towel, and of a tragic love. She would protect it. She would love it. Even if the world around her had to crumble. She stood there, in the dim light of her studio, a woman alone, pregnant with an impossible secret, and for the first time since the doctor's announcement, she no longer felt defeated. She felt determined. The fight of her life had just begun, and she had accepted its terms, her heart heavy, but her will of steel. The desperate romance of her story with Chris had just morphed into a maternal drama where she would be, come what may, the heroine.