THE DOCTOR’S OBSESSION: HIS PREGNANT STEPSISTER

Clara’s POV “I don't care about the risks. Just end it." The nurse flinched as I slapped her. I watched her pity turn into something careful and fake. I hate that look. I don't need pity. I need this over. “Miss, the doctor has to do a check first before we do." “Then get him," I said, and my voice cracked right in the middle. I hated the crack. I pulled the thin paper dress tight around me and pressed my cold hands into my lap so they would stop shaking. The room smelled cleaner. It was too bright, too white. My stomach turned over, and I swallowed hard. For three mornings now I had thrown up. Three mornings of knowing something was growing inside me that I never asked for. My mind kept flashing back to that night even though I tried to stop it. The club was loud. The drink tasted wrong, bitter at the end. The floor started to move. I remember Victor’s smile. My boyfriend. The man I trusted for two years. He pushed me toward the dark and left me there. Then the cold air hit me. The rain. Footsteps behind me. Men laughing. And then him. A stranger pulled me into an alley. Big hands. A deep voice that told me to breathe. The drug was still in my blood, and it made my skin hot and my head wild. I remember grabbing his shirt. I remember begging him not to leave me there alone. I remember him carrying me. I don't remember much after that. Just heat. Just safety in a dark hotel room. Just waking up alone with a headache that felt like knives. When I missed my period, I knew. When the test showed two lines, I knew I had to fix it fast. My mom just got married to a rich man. She finally has a good life. If she finds out I’m pregnant by some stranger from a club, everything breaks. I can’t do that to her. The door handle turned. I sat up fast and wiped my eyes. I told myself to look brave. To look normal. Get in, get out, never think about it again. “I am Dr. Vance," a man said from the doorway. His voice was low and flat. "I will handle your procedure." He stopped. The air left the room. I turned my head slowly because my neck felt stiff. He stood there with a metal board in his hand. Tall. Shoulders wide under his blue shirt. Dark hair. A hard jaw. Eyes that looked right through me. My heart stopped, then slammed hard against my ribs. I knew those eyes. Even through the blur of that night, through the drug and the rain, I knew them. The man from the alley. The stranger who didn’t let go of me. Panic shot up my throat. No. No, this cannot be happening. Not here. Not him, Then the nurse's words from the front desk rang in my head again. Dr. Vance. Vance- my blood went cold. I’d seen that last name on my mom’s new wedding photos. I’d seen his face in a frame on the mantel in our new house. My mom married Richard Vance last month. This was her new stepson. The doctor's son who was always working overseas. Elias, my new stepbrother. He hadn't moved. He just stared at me, the metal board shaking a little in his big hand. His face went from a calm doctor to something shocked and then something else I couldn’t read. “You," he breathed out. Just one word. I wanted to slide off the table and run. If his dad found out, if my mom found out that her daughter slept with her new stepson it would kill her. I could see her happy face crumbling. “Doctor," I said, and I tried to make my voice steady. It didn't work. "I want a different doctor. You can't be here. "He didn't answer. He took one step in. Then another. Then he turned and kicked the door shut with his foot. The lock clicked loudly. "Hey! What are you doing?" I said it louder now. Fear made my voice sharp. "Open the door." He looked down at the board. He read my name. Clara. Then his eyes dropped to the date on the paper. Eight weeks. I watched him do the math. I saw it hit him. His chest stopped moving for a second. Eight weeks ago was his dad's welcome home dinner. The same night he found a girl crying in the rain, He looked up at me. His eyes were dark now, not shocked anymore. Something deep and hungry and scared all at once. “Clara," he said. My name sounded too heavy coming from him. "How do you know my name?" I lied fast. I pushed back on the table. "I don't know you." "Stop lying," he said softly. He put the board down hard on the counter. It clanged. He came right up to me. He put both hands on the table, one on each side of my hips, boxing me in. I could smell him now. Clean soap and a little bit of mint. It was the same smell from that hotel room. My skin remembered before my brain did, and that made me angry at myself. “You are pregnant," he said. It wasn't a question. "Yes," I whispered. Shame burned my face. "And I'm ending it today. You will walk out and forget you saw me. If you tell anyone." “No." Just that. No. I blinked. "What do you mean no?" “You are not ending it," he said, and his voice dropped low. It shook a little at the edge, like he was holding something back. Anger flared up in me, hot and sudden. It felt better than the shame. "You don't get to tell me what to do! You're not my." I almost said "boyfriend." I almost said anything. I tried to duck under his arm. His hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough that I couldn't pull away. My pulse jumped under his thumb. He felt it. “I have every right," he said. I expected him to look at me with disgust. I expected the cold doctor to look. That's what I deserved, right? The stupid girl who got drugged and made a mess, but he didn't look disgusted. He looked... starved. Like he'd been waiting for something and finally found it. His free hand moved slowly. He laid his big, warm palm flat on my stomach, right over the paper dress. I gasped. I should have pushed him. I should have screamed. My brain was screaming at me to slap him away. But my body did the most terrible thing. For one second, I relaxed. The heat from his hand spread through my cold skin. For one second I felt safe. Like the night in the alley when he held me and the world stopped spinning. That one second terrified me more than anything else. I hated myself for it. “You think this is a mistake you can erase," he whispered, his face close to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek. "It's not." “It IS!" I cried, and a tear slipped out before I could stop it. "I was drugged! I didn't know what I was doing! I don't even know YOU!" His jaw locked tight. I saw a muscle jump there. His hand pressed a little firmer on my stomach, like he was claiming it. “You know me," he said, and now there was something broken under the cold. "Your body knew me that night. You held onto my shirt and begged me not to leave you in the dark. Do you remember that?" I turned my face away because I did remember. And I hated that I did. “Please," I begged, my pride crumbling. "You are my stepbrother. This is wrong. Everyone will hate us. My mom." “We are not blood," he cut in fast. "And what happened wasn't wrong. It was the only real thing I've felt in years." He leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching mine. His voice cracked, just a little, and that crack scared me more than his anger. “I haven't slept right since that night," he said. "I left you in that hotel because I thought I was protecting you. I came home and saw your picture on my dad's wall. My new little sister. I thought I was going crazy. And now I walk in here and you are on my table..." His hand moved in a slow circle on my stomach, "carrying my baby." The world tilted. Hi. Not a stranger's. Hi. The baby inside me belonged to the obsessive, cold doctor who was also the man my mother now called son. I couldn't breathe. My hands were shaking again. "You can't, you can't keep me here." “I'm not just keeping you here, Clara," he said, and his dark eyes locked on mine and wouldn't let go. "You're not killing my child. And you're not walking out of this clinic alone." He let go of my wrist only to pull his phone from his pocket with his other hand. He still didn't take his hand off my stomach. He hit one button. The phone rang once. My stomach dropped to the floor. He was calling his father. He hit one button. The phone rang once. My stomach dropped. He put it on speaker. “Richard.” Elias’s voice was flat. Controlled. A pause. Then a deeper voice came through the line. Calm. Measured. “Elias. You’re at the clinic.” “Yes.” “Is this about the girl?” Elias’s thumb pressed harder against my stomach. I flinched. He didn’t look away from my face. “She’s eight weeks pregnant,” Elias said. “And she’s not leaving with anyone but me.” The line went quiet. I heard the faint hum of traffic on his end. A car door shut. “Bring her home,” Richard said finally. “We’ll discuss it at dinner. And Elias? Don’t make me come get her.” The call ended. Elias lowered the phone. His jaw was tight. His eyes never left mine. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re leaving.” I stared at the screen. The call log still glowed. Richard Vance – 0:42. My hands went cold. He wasn’t just calling his father; he was moving me into the house. And I had no say in it.