THE WEIGHT OF TWO LINES
760 Words
(Fiona’s POV
Fiona stayed on the bathroom floor long after the test confirmed the truth she wasn’t ready to face. The apartment was silent except for her uneven breaths. Fear curled around her like cold mist.
**Pregnant.**
With **Alistair’s** child.
Her soon to be stepbrother.
The mafia lord.
The man she should never have touched.
Her stomach twisted. She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the world to rewind three months.
But reality sat in her hand — two pink lines that promised her life would never go back to ordinary.
Eventually, she pulled herself up, splashed water on her face, and stared at her reflection.
She looked the same.
But she didn’t feel the same.
She felt like a storm waiting for one violent strike.
The next morning, Fiona met Zara at their usual bus stop. Zara took one look at her and frowned.
“You look like you didn’t sleep. Or like someone stole your soul.”
Fiona attempted a smile. “Rough night.”
“Rough night or emotional breakdown?” Zara said, crossing her arms. “Because there’s a difference.”
Fiona tried to dodge. “It’s nothing—”
“Oh, it’s *something*,” Zara said immediately. “You have that quiet panic face. The same one you had when you lost your final-year results slip.”
Trust Zara to remember the most random humiliating details.
Fiona opened her mouth — to deny, deflect, or laugh it off — she didn’t know which. But the bus arrived, its brakes screeching, cutting the moment short.
Zara narrowed her eyes.
“We’re talking about this later. Don’t think you can escape.”
Fiona exhaled shakily and climbed into the bus.
She had escaped Alistair.
She had escaped the past.
But she couldn’t escape *this*.
*Alistair POV*
In his private suite high above the city, Alistair stood overlooking the skyline as dawn painted the horizon in muted gold. His expression was unreadable, carved in stone.
He had been awake for hours, restless.
Something was off.
He couldn’t explain how he knew — instinct, intuition, the kind that had kept him alive in a world built on blood and betrayal. But a pressure lurked under his ribs, an uneasiness he couldn’t shake.
Gregor entered the room quietly.
“Boss,” he greeted.
Alistair didn’t turn. “Report.”
“Shipments cleared. The eastern faction wants another meeting. And your stepmother called again. She says Fiona hasn’t visited in weeks.”
Alistair’s jaw tightened at the mention of her name.
Fiona.
The girl he’d tried to forget.
The woman who haunted him.
The only softness he had ever allowed himself — even if only for one night.
“She’s alive? Safe?” he asked without looking back.
Gregor didn’t comment on the concern. “Yes. Normal routine. Work, home, friend named Zara—”
Alistair exhaled, slow, conflicted.
“Good.”
But the pressure in his chest didn’t ease.
He didn’t know why his instincts screamed at him.
He didn’t know why every breath felt too heavy.
But he knew something about Fiona had changed.
And he feared what it meant.
By midday, Fiona could no longer pretend everything was okay. The nausea hit again — sharp and sudden — and she rushed to the restroom.
Zara followed her.
“Fiona, are you sick?” she demanded, her voice softer now, concerned rather than dramatic.
Fiona rinsed her mouth, gripping the sink to steady herself. Tears pricked her eyes, unwelcome and overwhelming.
Zara stepped closer. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Fiona’s throat tightened. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t.
But Zara’s voice gentled.
“You’re scaring me.”
Fiona broke.
“It’s late,” she whispered. “My period… it’s late.”
Zara froze.
Then her eyes widened, her breath catching.
“Oh my God.”
Fiona nodded, trembling.
“And I… I took a test.”
Zara’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Positive?”
Fiona couldn’t speak. She only nodded again.
Zara grabbed her hand, squeezing hard.
“Fiona… whose is it?”
Fiona’s chest heaved.
And for the first time since the test, she said his name out loud.
“Alistair.”
Zara blinked once.
Twice.
Her mouth fell open.
Don't tell me ........ That same Alistair? The mafia—Fiona, babe, we are in trouble.”
Fiona covered her face, shaking.
“I know.”
And in that small restroom, under flickering lights and cheap tiles, the truth settled like thunder.
This wasn’t just a pregnancy.
This was a war waiting to start
- Writer
