Love before the last riders

Chapter three

Denise’s POV

I woke up the next morning with a heavy heart. John had tried talking to me all night, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond. His voice felt like a weight pressing against my chest—something I could no longer bear.

I slipped into the guest-room bathroom, took a long shower, and got dressed in a simple sundress. My hands trembled a little as I grabbed my purse and booked a taxi to the hospital. The ride felt endless. My mind kept replaying everything from the night before, every lie, every moment I had mistaken for love.

At the hospital, I sat quietly in the lobby, staring at the floor tiles as if they could offer me some sort of escape.

“Denise Parker?” a nurse called, scanning the waiting area.

I stood and followed her into the doctor’s office.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the doctor greeted warmly. I returned the greeting with a nod.

“So, Miss Denise, you came in yesterday for a full STD screening. Our lab technician wasn’t available, so we appreciate your patience. He’s here today, and this nurse will take you to the lab. The results will be ready in about two hours.”

I thanked her and followed the nurse. The technician drew my blood quickly, and afterward I left the hospital to grab breakfast. I hadn’t eaten since last night, and the emptiness in my stomach felt like it matched the emptiness in my chest.

At a small café nearby, I ordered a sandwich and fresh apple juice—my comfort meal. I ate silently, whispering a prayer that my results would come back negative. For once, I wanted something—anything—to go right.

Two hours later, I returned to the hospital just as my name was called.

My hands shook as I opened the envelope. Negative. Relief washed over me so intensely I nearly sat on the floor. Thank God.

But then the technician spoke gently. “Your blood pressure is unusually high. I don’t mean to pry, but when was your last period?”

I tried to think. My cycles had always been irregular because of PCOS. “About… eight weeks ago,” I finally answered.

He nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like to run a pregnancy test. Results will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

He drew my blood again. As I waited, my pulse thudded loudly in my ears. I’d always wanted children—but not like this. Not with a man who had torn me apart. Not while everything I’d built was collapsing.

When the technician handed me the second envelope, I already knew. Somehow, deep inside, I knew.

Positive. Ten weeks along.

A strange mixture of fear, wonder, and grief surged through me. Ten weeks… so I’d already been pregnant when I last saw my period. No wonder it had been so light.

The technician directed me to the gynecologist.

The doctor’s office felt warm and bright, almost too calm for the storm brewing inside me.

“Good morning, Miss Denise. Your test came back positive. Before we proceed, do you plan to keep the baby or consider adoption? We don’t offer abortion services.”

“I’m keeping my baby,” I said without hesitation. My voice didn’t even crack.

“Good. You’re a little underweight, but that can be fixed with healthy eating. Have you noticed any symptoms?”

I swallowed hard. “Nothing major. Just missed periods, but I blamed stress. I have PCOS, so irregular cycles are normal for me. I’ve been in a five-year relationship… I just didn’t notice. Maybe I’ve been more tired.”

“That’s all right. Please lie back so I can examine you.”

She pressed cool gel onto my stomach and moved the ultrasound wand. Then I heard it—the tiny, steady heartbeat. My baby’s heartbeat. It echoed through the room, through my bones, through everything I was.

“That’s your baby. Want a printed copy?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

She handed me the sonogram, and I held it like something sacred.

My next appointment was supposed to be at twelve weeks, but I told her, “I’m moving to California tomorrow.”

“No problem. Just register with a gynecologist once you arrive. Eat your meals regularly, avoid too much junk food, and focus on whole foods and vegetables.”

I thanked her and left the hospital. It was already 2 p.m.

Back at John’s house, I packed everything I owned. The photos on the walls—our smiles frozen in moments I now knew were lies—felt like knives. I left them all behind. Memories could stay with him. I didn’t need them anymore.

On the way to the guesthouse, I bought some healthy food and checked in. Only then did I turn my phone back on.

Dozens of missed calls. Messages from my family. Messages from John. His name flashing again and again. I blocked him immediately.

Then I called my mother.

She answered on the first ring, voice shaking. “Thank goodness, baby. John told us what happened. Are you okay?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “As okay as a woman who caught her partner cheating can be. The whole town knew. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Honey, your dad’s been in chemotherapy. I haven’t been paying attention. My friend mentioned—”

“How long have you known?” I cut in.

Silence.

“Six months,” she whispered.

Six months. My own family. Protecting him.

It felt like something inside me cracked.

“You chose him over me,” I said, my voice barely holding together. “Your best friend’s son mattered more than your own daughter. Do you know how that feels? To realize the people you counted on most didn’t bother to protect you, didn’t even try?i’m staying in a guesthouse. I’m leaving tomorrow. Don’t ask where—I won’t tell you. Maybe one day, when this pain dulls, I’ll reach out. I’ll call once a month to check on Dad. Goodbye, Mom.”

I hung up before she could respond.

After showering, the guesthouse staff brought my dinner. I thanked them and ate, trying not to break down again. I packed my things for the morning flight and removed my SIM card. John wasn’t going to track me anywhere.

Later, I curled up with my laptop, playing some random movie, hoping the noise would drown out my thoughts, but the ache in my chest refused to settle. My eyes drifted to my belly again, drawn there by a quiet, fragile sense of wonder I couldn’t ignore. My fingers traced imaginary circles on my stomach, feeling the tiny life growing inside me, and a strange warmth settled in my chest despite the storm of emotions raging elsewhere.

I thought about how different my life would be from now on. How I would have to be stronger than I ever imagined. How I would have to protect this little soul, shield it from the heartbreak that had engulfed my own heart. And yet, even in the fear and uncertainty, I felt a flicker of joy. A small, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, the future wouldn’t be as dark as today.

My mind wandered back to John—not the man he had been, but the boy I had loved. The boy who had held my hand in the schoolyard, who had made promises beneath the stars, who had laughed and kissed me like the world could stop for just a moment. I allowed myself one bitter smile. That boy was gone. The man before me—the one who had shattered everything—was someone else entirely. I couldn’t reconcile the memory with the reality.

I thought about my family, too. Six months of silence, six months of secrets, and the weight of it all pressed down on me like a physical force. How could they have chosen him over me? Did they not see how I had loved him, how much I had believed in us? My chest tightened as tears threatened to spill again. But this time, I let them. I let them flow freely, without shame. For the first time in months, I cried for myself, for the life I had lost, for the child I carried, and for the hope I still clung to.

I slept early and woke before sunrise. My flight was at 7 a.m. By 6:30, I was at the airport. The flight was quiet. Thankfully, morning sickness hadn’t hit me.

We landed in California at 9 a.m. The air felt different—new, open, almost hopeful. I took a cab to a small guesthouse l, booked a week’s stay, and promised myself I’d find an apartment before my savings ran out.

I grabbed breakfast at a nearby café, letting the warm smell of coffee and fresh pastries calm my nerves for a moment. I ordered a simple meal—something filling enough to settle my stomach but gentle on my anxiety—and sat by the window, watching people pass by as the city slowly came to life around me. For the first time in a long while, I felt a tiny spark of hope flicker inside my chest.my first night in California, a quiet guesthouse filled with sunlight, the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the gentle rhythm of my own heartbeat syncing with the tiny heartbeat of my baby. I imagined teaching my child about kindness, love, and strength, and I felt a surge of determination. Whoever tried to hurt me, whoever betrayed me—they wouldn’t define the story my child and I would share.

I looked around the guesthouse room—the plain walls, the modest furniture, the quiet hum of the heater—and I realized I didn’t need much. I only needed myself, my courage, and this little life inside me. That was enough to start anew. I whispered to my belly again, “We’ll be okay, little one. I promise you that.”

After a while, I turned off the laptop and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was heavy but comforting, a reminder that I was finally alone with my thoughts and my heart. For the first time, I allowed myself to feel the weight of my grief, the pain of betrayal, and the fragility of hope all at once.

Sleep finally came slowly, carrying with it dreams of a new life—of a city far from lies, of mornings filled with sunlight and laughter, of a child I would love more than anything. And as I slept, I made a quiet vow to myself: to never look back, to protect the life inside me, and to find happiness, no matter how long the road ahead might be.

California was beautiful.

Maybe—just maybe—it could be the place where my broken pieces finally came together again.

And I hoped, more than anything, that this new beginning would make both me and my baby happy.

Whatever was ahead, I was ready.