Chapter 3: Two Lines, One Truth
496 Words
I didn’t sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those pink lines. Bold. Unforgiving. Absolute.
Pregnant.
The word itself felt foreign on my tongue. Like something that belonged in someone else’s s********e girl with a plan. A savings account. A partner.
Not me.
I sat on the edge of my bed with my knees pulled to my chest and tried to breathe. My world felt like it had shrunk to the size of my one-bedroom apartment. Everything was too loud—cars outside, the ticking clock on the wall, my own thoughts.
I thought about calling Marcie.
But what would I say?
“Hey, remember that night we crashed a rich people party and I disappeared with a stranger? Well, surprise.”
No. I couldn’t. Not yet.
So I did the only thing I could do.
I worked.
I took the late shifts, doubled down on my hours at the bookstore and cleaned apartments on weekends. I counted every penny, skipped meals, and told myself I was strong. That I could do this alone.
But I also started searching.
First, I tried the gala’s name—Veridian Foundation. I found photos of the event on social media and scoured every single one, zooming in, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
And then I did.
A grainy side profile, but unmistakably him. Damien.
The caption read:
“CEO Damien Blackwood of Blackwood Enterprises makes rare appearance at the Veridian Gala.”
Blackwood.
Finally, a full name.
My fingers trembled as I typed it into a search bar.
What came up was a cascade of images—interviews, magazine covers, Forbes articles. Damien Blackwood: The Young Visionary, Tech’s Reluctant Genius, The Silent Billionaire.
He wasn’t just powerful. He was everywhere.
Except… not anymore.
The most recent article was six months old. A headline that didn’t match the others:
“Blackwood Enterprises Crumbles Amidst Scandal: CEO Disappears from Public Eye.”
I clicked, heart pounding.
Fraud. Embezzlement. Betrayal from within his own company. Anonymous sources. Investors pulling out. And Damien?
Vanished.
There were rumors of a breakdown. An accident. Some said he’d gone to Europe. Others claimed he’d checked into a facility for exhaustion. But none of it was confirmed.
All I knew was: he was no longer the untouchable man I’d met that night.
I leaned back, eyes burning.
He had fallen. And hard.
A part of me whispered good, for leaving me like that. For making me carry this alone.
But another part—the deeper, quieter part—felt something I didn’t want to name.
Concern. Compassion. Maybe even... sorrow.
I shut the laptop and pressed my palm to my belly. It was still flat. Still mine alone.
But not for long.
“I’ll find him,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “Not for me. For you.”
And for the first time, the idea of being alone with this didn’t crush me.
It gave me purpose.
- Writer
