His Forgotten Bride

A Name I Wasn't Ready For

Amara Bells' POV

"Miss Bells?"

The nurse called my name and I stood up too fast, my knees weak, my palms sweaty even though the clinic was freezing.

I followed her down the hallway, past other women with their partners' hands wrapped around theirs, other women who weren't walking alone with their arms crossed tight over their stomachs.

"The doctor will see you in room two," she said, pointing to a door with chipped white paint.

So I sat on the edge of the exam table and the paper crinkled loudly under me, my legs swinging just to have something to do with the nervous energy building in my chest.

The door opened and a woman in a white coat walked in, glancing at the chart in her hand before looking up at me.

"Amara, right?" she said.

"Yes," I said, gripping the edge of the table.

"We got your blood work back," she said, sitting down on the little stool across from me and wheeling closer. "Congratulations, you're pregnant."

The word hit me like cold water thrown straight in my face, even though some part of me already knew, had known for weeks, the mornings spent hunched over the toilet, the exhaustion I couldn't blame on work anymore.

"How far along?" I asked, my voice cracking on the last word.

"About six weeks," she said. "Is there someone we should call? A partner, family?"

"No," I said, too fast, my hands twisting in my lap. "There's no one to call."

She studied me for a second, not with judgment, just quiet concern.

"Do you have support at home?" she asked.

"My mother," I said. "She's sick though, so she can't know about this yet."

"Okay," she said gently, sliding a folder across the small counter toward me. "We'll get you started on prenatal vitamins and set a follow-up. You're not alone in this, even if it feels that way right now."

I nodded, because it was easier than telling her the truth, that I didn't even know the father's name, only the sound of his voice cracking in the dark and his hand shaking so hard against mine.

Then, I walked out of that clinic into the gray afternoon clutching a folder I didn't want, my other hand pressed flat against my stomach without me even choosing to put it there.

By the time I climbed the stairs to our apartment, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

My mother was asleep in her chair, the television flickering low, her pill bottles lined up on the side table like little soldiers standing guard.

I sat across her as I just watched her chest rise and fall for a minute, doing the math in my head, rent, her medication, and now this.

"You're home early," she mumbled, stirring.

"Just tired, Mama," I said, forcing my voice steady.

"You look pale," she said, squinting at me through half open eyes.

"I'm fine," I said. "Go back to sleep."

She reached out, then she squeezed my hand before drifting off again, and I sat there a long time after, my palm still resting low on my stomach.

***

That night, once the apartment had gone fully quiet, I dragged the old box out from under my bed, the one filled with my father's things, the one nobody wanted after he died.

I told myself I was only looking for money, old bonds, insurance papers, anything I could turn into cash before the bills stacked higher than I could climb.

I ripped the tape off the top and dust flew up into my face, making me cough as I dug both hands into the mess of folders.

"Come on," I muttered, flipping through page after page, receipts, expired warranties, letters from names I didn't recognize.

My fingers ached, one paper cut stinging sharp against my thumb, and I almost slammed the lid shut and shoved the whole box back under the bed where it had sat untouched for years.

Then my hand caught on something different, something rougher than the rest.

I pulled it free, and a torn piece of paper came with it, edges jagged like someone had ripped it in a hurry, tucked so deep between two folders it felt hidden on purpose.

I sat back against the bed frame and smoothed it flat across my knees, my breath catching when I saw the small emblem printed in the corner, faded gold ink pressed into thick paper.

I leaned closer, tilting it toward the lamp, tracing the shape with my thumb, a shield with wings curling out from either side.

My heart started pounding before my brain even caught up to why.

I flipped the paper over, hands shaking now, searching for something else, a date, a signature, something that made sense of it.

There was nothing in it.

Then, I turned it back over and held it right under the lamp, close enough that the light burned against my eyes, and that's when I saw the name printed just beneath the crest, half torn away but still readable.

I mouthed it out loud without meaning to, just to make sure I wasn't imagining it.

"Kane."

I said it again, louder this time, like saying it twice would make it less real.

"Kane."

My hands wouldn't stop shaking, the paper trembling between my fingers, and somewhere deep in my chest, a question I'd carried since I was a teenager started clawing its way back to the surface.

Who destroyed my father? I asked myself.

I stared at that torn piece of paper like it might answer me if I held on long enough, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could hear it in my own ears.

My father's face flashed through my mind, the way he used to sit by the window after everything fell apart, silent for hours, a man hollowed out by something he never explained to me.

I pressed the paper flat against my chest and closed my eyes.

"Whoever you are," I whispered into the empty room, "I will find you."

My hand curled into a fist around the torn edge of that crest.

"I must find this person," I said, "and take revenge on what they did to my father, no matter how long it takes, no matter what it costs me.”