Three For trouble

Chapter 2 The Waiting Game

One month.

That was how long it had been since I ran out of that hotel room, leaving my father’s voice mails unread and my expensive dress crumpled on a stranger's floor. One month of waking up in my own bed, in my own tiny apartment, with nothing but the hum of the old refrigerator to keep me company.

I had changed my number. I hadn't told a single soul where I lived. I didn't even tell Nicole, my old college roommate, because I knew my father would squeeze her for information. I had burned every bridge I had and walked into the dark with nothing but a half-empty purse and a stubborn heartbeat.

It was hard.

I had found a temp job two weeks ago—data entry at a mid-sized insurance firm. It paid barely enough to cover my rent and groceries, but it was honest work. I sat in a gray cubicle from nine to six, typing numbers into spreadsheets, listening to the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead. My coworkers didn't speak to me much. They didn't need to. I was just another faceless temp, another body filling a seat until they found someone permanent.

I liked the anonymity. I didn't have to explain my life to anyone. No one asked about my father. No one asked about the wedding. I was just Emma, the quiet girl who ate her lunch alone in the breakroom and never stayed late.

But this morning, my body had decided to betray me.

I woke up at six-fifteen with a sudden, violent wave of nausea. My stomach rolled, and I barely made it to the toilet before I threw up. I sat there on the cold tile floor, my forehead pressed against the porcelain bowl, breathing hard.

What the hell?

I thought it was the cheap takeout I had eaten last night. But then I remembered yesterday morning. And the morning before. Three days in a row of this. Three days of waking up with my head spinning and my stomach rejecting everything.

I did the math in my head, counting backward.

The bar. The stranger. The hotel room.

That was exactly five weeks ago.

My blood ran cold.

I stood up on shaky legs, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face was pale. My eyes were wide. The hollow look in them had deepened over the last month, but now, there was something else. Fear. Pure, absolute fear.

No. No, no, no.

I told myself it was probably just a stomach bug. I told myself I was being dramatic. I had a very stressful month. Stress does weird things to your body. I drank a glass of water, brushed my teeth, and forced myself to get dressed for work.

But as I walked to the bus stop, the thought wouldn't leave my mind. It sat in my chest like a heavy stone, weighing me down with every step.

At lunch, I couldn't eat. I stared at my sandwich, the smell of the deli meat making my stomach turn. I pushed it away and grabbed my purse.

There was a pharmacy two blocks from the office. I slipped out during my break, walking fast, my heart hammering against my ribs. The store was small and cramped, with dusty shelves and a bored cashier staring at her phone. I walked to the family planning aisle and stared at the rows of pregnancy tests.

There were so many. Some were pink. Some were blue. Some promised results in two minutes. Some promised digital readouts. I grabbed the cheapest one, a basic pink box, and walked to the register.

The cashier looked at me, then at the box, then back at me. She didn't say anything, but her eyebrows lifted slightly. I felt my cheeks burn. I paid in cash, shoved the box into my bag, and practically ran back to the office.

I couldn't take it during work hours. That would be insane. I shoved the box into the bottom of my drawer and tried to focus on my spreadsheets. But the numbers blurred in front of my eyes. All I could see was that pink box, sitting there, mocking me.

The day dragged on forever.

At exactly six o'clock, I clocked out, grabbed my bag, and walked straight to the bathroom on my way out. I locked the stall door, sat down, and pulled out the box. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I tore the box open, read the instructions, and did what I had to do.

Then I waited.

I sat there on the toilet, staring at the little plastic stick resting on the counter, the timer on my phone counting down. One minute. Two minutes. The bathroom smelled like cheap hand soap and bleach. Somewhere in the office, a janitor was vacuuming the hallway.

Beep.

My timer went off.

I picked up the test, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. I turned it over.

Two pink lines.

I stared at them for a long time. The lines were clear. Unmistakable. There was no room for doubt. I was pregnant.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just sat there, frozen, staring at those two little lines. My mind went completely blank. I felt like someone had reached inside my chest and pulled the air out of my lungs.

The stranger from the bar. The one who had left without a word. That man was the father of my child. I didn't know his name. I didn't know his face. I didn't even know if he lived in this city. He was just a ghost, a shadow from a reckless night I had tried so hard to forget.

I had one month of being alone, and now, I was never going to be alone again.

I wrapped the test in toilet paper, shoved it back into my purse, and walked out of the bathroom. The office was empty. The lights were off. I walked through the dark hallways, out the front door, and into the cold night air.

I didn't take the bus. I walked all the way home, the cold wind biting my cheeks. The city was alive with honking cars and flashing neon lights, but I barely registered any of it. My feet moved on autopilot. I climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment, unlocked my door, and stepped inside.

I tossed my purse on the floor, walked to the kitchen, and sat down at my small, rickety table. The test was still in my purse. I didn't need to look at it again. I knew it was real.

My hands started shaking again. But this time, the shaking turned into something else. Something solid.

I had spent my whole life being a pawn in my father's games. I had never made a choice for myself. Never. I had been forced into dresses, forced into engagements, forced into a life I never wanted.

But this—this baby—was mine.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't convenient. It was terrifying. But it was mine. I didn't need a man to validate it. I didn't need my father's approval. I didn't need anyone's permission. I was going to have this baby, and I was going to raise it, and I was going to give it the life I never had.

I didn't know how I was going to do it. I barely made rent. I had no savings. I had no support system. But the fire in my chest was stronger than the fear.

I was going to be a mother. And I was going to be damn good at it.

I stood up, walked to my tiny bathroom, and ran a hot shower. I stood under the water for a long time, letting the heat wash over me. I placed one hand on my stomach, still flat, still normal, but I knew what was growing inside me.

I turned off the water, dried myself off, and crawled into bed.

For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel invisible. I felt... strong.

I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a future I didn't understand yet.

The next morning, I woke up early. I felt better. The nausea was gone, replaced by a strange, quiet peace. I got dressed, grabbed my purse, and opened my front door to head to work.

I froze.

A man was standing in my hallway.

He was tall—easily over six feet. Broad shoulders. Dark, immaculate hair. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a silver tie, no creases, no imperfections. His jaw was sharp, his face handsome in a cold, intimidating way. And his eyes—gray, piercing, unreadable—were locked on me.

He was holding a leather binder in his hands.

I took a step back, my heart slamming into my chest. My door was still open behind me, but I didn't know if I could close it in time.

The man didn't smile. He didn't move. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable, like he was examining a piece of property.

"Ms. Vance," he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth. "My name is Greg."

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to my purse, then back to my face.

"We need to talk about our wedding."