The Leading Lady's Secret

Emma walked out of the hospital, the automatic doors sliding shut behind her. Cold evening air hit her face. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and pressed a hand to her flat stomach. “You're pregnant." The doctor's calm voice still rang in her ears. He had said it like simple news, like a weather report, not something that could turn her whole life upside down. Pregnant. Her mind flipped back to the exam room, to the faint rustle of paper beneath her and the sudden chill of gel spreading over her skin, to the monitor where a tiny shape flickered on the ultrasound screen—a small, budding life that felt strange and wondrous all at once. The doctor had tapped a tiny bright knot. There—that blur is your baby. No face, just a blinking speck of light that made the whole world tilt. Her phone buzzed in her bag. She dug it out with stiff fingers. Barbara. Emma answered. “Hey." “Where are you?" Barbara sounded excited and impatient. “The producers keep calling. They want to know if you're in or out." Emma stepped to the side of the entrance, away from people coming and going. “I know." “So? Don't make me suffer like this," Barbara groaned. “This drama is huge, Em—ratings, awards, global streaming, the whole package." “I already agreed," Emma said quietly. “You sent the email this morning." Barbara let out a squeal. “Right. I still can't believe it. My girl, the female lead in a big-budget series, directed by—" “Don't say his name," Emma cut in. There was a pause. “You still haven't told Charles?" Emma stared at the red hospital sign above the doors. “No. Not about the role. Not about… anything." Director Charles Holden, the industry's golden boy—and the secret boyfriend no one was allowed to know about. To the outside world they were just polite colleagues who somehow never worked together. “We have to be smart. We can't mix work and private life," he always said. “If they know we're together, every success will look dirty." A secret relationship was one thing; a pregnant lead actress in his own show was another. “You said you'd talk to him," Barbara reminded her. “Look, I know he hates the idea of working with his girlfriend. He's scared of rumors and critics, but he'll get over it. You earned this part. He loves you. He'll figure it out." Emma let out a breath. “I'm going home now. I'll talk to him tonight." “Good." Barbara's voice softened. “You sound tired. Get some rest after that. And, Emma?" “Yeah?" “Congratulations," Barbara said. “On the nomination. On the role. On everything." Emma hung up. She raised her arm and waved at a taxi. One stopped, and she slid into the back seat. “City Heights Residences, please," she told the driver. As the car pulled away, she leaned her head against the window. Streetlights slid past in yellow lines. A baby. She had gone to the hospital after weeks of dizziness and nausea, blaming it on bad food, stress, late-night shoots. “Just give me something to stop the nausea," she had told the doctor. Instead, he had shown her the test results and smiled. “Congratulations. You're about seven weeks along." Seven weeks. The baby already existed back when she walked the Emmy red carpet, when reporters asked her how it felt to be “the new queen of drama." If she kept the baby, filming would be hard. Long hours, bright lights, night shoots. A changing body under HD cameras. A secret she would have to hide from everyone. If she gave up the role, another actress would step in. The taxi pulled up by her building. Emma paid, thanked the driver, and went inside. The lobby was quiet. In the elevator, she stared at her reflection in the mirror: pale skin, tired eyes, carefully styled hair already coming loose. “You should be happy," she told her reflection under her breath. “You wanted a family one day." Her reflection did not look happy. At the apartment door, she listened. Silence. Charles wasn't home yet. She let herself in, turned on the lights, and dropped her bag on the sofa. His shoes were not by the door, his jacket was not on the chair. Only her things. Emma went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and glanced at the bottle of red wine on the counter. The doctor's words flashed in her mind. “No alcohol. No heavy stress if you can avoid it." She pushed the bottle to the corner and took a sip of water instead. On the coffee table lay the printed script for the new series. She picked it up, flipping through pages marked with sticky notes. She had loved the female lead from the first scene—sharp, brave, funny, a woman who refused to be small. “Tell him," she whispered. “Tell him about the role. Tell him about the baby." She sat on the sofa and rehearsed the words in her mind. “Charles, I went to the hospital. I'm pregnant." Too direct. “Charles, we need to talk about our future." Too dramatic. “Hey, guess what. You're going to be a dad." She winced and covered her face with her hands. Nothing sounded right. Time crawled—nine, ten, eleven. The city outside slowly quieted. Emma turned the TV on and off, tried reading, then gave up. She lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, one hand unconsciously resting over her lower belly. Around midnight, the lock clicked. Emma sat up, heart pounding. She wiped her palms on her jeans and stood, legs a little unsteady. The door opened. Charles stepped in, shoulders tense, hair slightly messy. He dropped his keys into the tray and kicked off his shoes without looking up. “Oh," he said when he finally saw her. “You're still awake." “Yeah." Emma tried to smile. “I was waiting for you." He frowned. “You have a morning interview. Why aren't you sleeping?" “I couldn't." She twisted her fingers together. “I… there's something I need to tell you." He walked into the living room and loosened his tie. “Can it wait until tomorrow? I'm exhausted. We spent the whole day arguing with the producers." “It's important," she said. Charles stopped halfway to the bedroom and turned back to her. For the first time he seemed to really look at her—the paleness of her face, the tension in her shoulders. “Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softening. “You look sick." “I went to the hospital today," she said. He took a step closer. “What happened? Are you ill?" “No, I—" Emma's throat closed. She pressed a hand to her stomach without thinking. “Charles, I—" He cut across her, his voice turning sharp. “Wait. Before you say anything, I need to ask you something first." She blinked. “What?" He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up, the screen casting a pale light on his face. “Barbara called me this afternoon," he said. “And the producer sent me a message." Emma's heartbeat picked up. Charles met her eyes, jaw tight. “Is it true?" “Is what true?" she asked, even though she already knew. He did not look away. “Did you accept the leading role in that series?" Emma felt the words about the baby freeze on her tongue. All she could do was stare back at him, her carefully planned confession collapsing in an instant.