PREGNANT FOR MY RUTHLESS BOSS

CHAPTER 7: THE NIGHT EVERYTHING ALMOST BROKE

It exploded.

I woke up with a sharp cry trapped in my throat, my body folding in on itself as something deep inside me twisted violently.

My hands gripped the thin mattress, my breath coming fast.

“No… not now,” I whispered, panic rising instantly.

“It’s too early.”

Another wave hit.

Unforgiving.

My body arched as the pain tore through me again, leaving no space to think, no space to breathe.

This wasn’t normal.

I knew it.

And that terrified me more than anything.

I was alone.

The room felt too quiet, too still—like it was watching me struggle without offering help.

I forced myself to sit up, my hands shaking as I reached for the edge of the bed.

“Think,” I whispered. “You need to think.”

But my thoughts scattered the moment another contraction hit.

My vision blurred.

My fingers tightened painfully against the mattress.

“I can’t do this alone,” I said, my voice cracking.

But I had no one.

No one to call.

No one who would come.

The floor felt cold beneath my feet as I forced myself up.

Every step toward the door felt like a battle.

Still, I moved.

Because staying meant risking everything.

And I couldn’t lose this baby.

Not after everything.

By the time I reached the street, the world had already started spinning.

Lights blurred.

Voices echoed.

I held onto a nearby pole, my body trembling as another wave of pain hit harder than the last.

My breath came out in short, broken bursts.

“Please,” I whispered, not even sure who I was begging anymore. “Please… just let me make it.”

Someone noticed me.

A woman rushed closer. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head weakly. “Hospital.”

That was all I could manage.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Help!” she called out.

Everything moved fast after that.

Hands guiding me.

Voices overlapping.

A car door opening.

And then motion.

Every second stretched.

Every breath burned.

I clutched my stomach, my fingers pressing desperately as if I could hold everything together.

“Stay,” I whispered. “Please stay.”

My voice trembled with fear.

Because deep down… I didn’t know if my baby could.

The clinic doors burst open.

Bright lights,sharp smells,urgent voices.

“Get her in!”

“Too early!”

“We need to move now!”

Everything blurred.

I barely registered being lifted, placed on a bed, surrounded by people moving too fast to follow.

“Breathe,” someone said firmly.

“I am,” I tried to respond.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

Nothing felt like enough.

Time stopped making sense.

The pain kept coming.

Stronger each time.

Relentless.

My body pushed beyond its limit, my strength slipping with every passing moment.

“I can’t,” I cried out. “I can’t do this!”

“You can,” a voice insisted.

But I didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

My hands clenched tightly, my entire body shaking as another wave tore through me.

“I’m going to lose him,” I whispered, my voice breaking completely.

The words hung in the air.

Everything shifted.

A sharp, final push.

A moment where the pain peaked so high it felt like it would shatter me completely.

Then

Silence.

My breath stopped.

My heart froze.

For one second, nothing happened.

And then

A cry.

Small.

Weak.

But

Alive.

Tears spilled down my face instantly, my body going still as the sound filled the room.

“My baby,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

I tried to lift my head, my eyes searching desperately.

“Is he okay?”

No one answered immediately.

Too many hands.

Too much movement.

My heart pounded harder.

“Please,” I said again. “Tell me.”

A nurse finally looked at me.

“He’s breathing,” she said carefully. “But he’s very small.”

Relief hit me—but it didn’t settle.

Because her words carried something else.

Fear.

They placed him in my arms for a brief moment.

I stared down at him, my vision blurring with tears.

So tiny.

So fragile.

His fingers barely moved.

His body… so still.

My hand trembled as I touched his cheek.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I didn’t leave.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t cry again.

And that scared me more than anything.

“We need to take him,” a voice said.

I tightened my hold.

“No… just one more second.”

I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t strong enough to let go.

But I had no choice.

Hands gently took him from me.

And just like that

He was gone.

The room felt empty again.

I lay back, my body drained, my mind racing despite the exhaustion pulling me under.

I am a mother now.

But I had never felt more helpless.

Minutes later

Or maybe hours

I forced myself up.

Ignoring the pain.

I needed to see him.

I needed to know.

The nursery lights were dim.

Machines surrounded him.

Soft, steady sounds filled the space.

I stopped at the glass, my breath catching as I saw him again.

So small.

So fragile.

Still fighting.

My hand pressed against the glass.

“I’m here,” I whispered again.

But this time, it felt like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

Behind me, voices spoke quietly.

“He’s not stable.”

“She won’t be able to afford this.”

“Without support… he won’t last.”

I froze.

Every word hit me like a slap.

My chest tightened painfully.

My fingers curled slowly against the glass.

Because I understood exactly what they meant.

I didn’t have time.

I didn’t have help.

I didn’t have money.

And my baby

Was running out of all three.

My reflection stared back at me in the glass.

Tired.

Broken.

But not done.

Not yet.

My jaw tightened.

My breathing steadied.

Because something inside me refused to accept this ending.

But as I looked at the machines keeping my baby alive…

One terrifying thought settled in completely.

What if I wasn’t strong enough to save him?