Pregnant
1032 Words
Three Weeks Later
The silence in the grand dining room of the Brown mansion was suffocating. The only sound was the sharp, metallic scraping of silver cutleries against porcelain. A family of four sat around the massive mahogany table, but there was no warmth, no conversation. Just an oppressive, heavy tension.
Suddenly, a violent wave of nausea hit Alita's stomach. Her mouth went dry. Catching her breath, she pushed her chair back with a loud screech, bolted from the table, and sprinted to the nearby kitchen sink. She leaned over, dry-heaving and puking up the few bites of dinner she had managed to swallow.
It was the third time today. She hadn't had an appetite in a week, but in this house, you didn't dare say "no" to dinner. For years, Alita had forced herself to follow every strict rule, thinking it applied to everyone. But she was only fooling herself. Ever since her beautiful mother passed away, she wasn't treated like a daughter. She was treated like an outsider in her own home.
Back at the dining table, Bianca and her mother, Emilia, exchanged a look. Slow, knowing smirks spread across their faces, their eyes dancing with cruel amusement.
Opposite them, Alita’s father, Marshal, slammed his fork down, a deep, thunderous frown marring his features.
When Alita walked back into the dining room, her face was deathly pale and filled with a dejected, frightened confusion. She was only nineteen. She was terrified of the math her brain was doing. Please, let it just be a stomach bug. I can't be pregnant. Not now. Not like this.
PAUAH!
Before she could even sit down, a stinging slap cracked across Alita’s cheek. The force snapped her head to the side, her skin instantly burning bright red.
"You absolute b***h!" Emilia hissed, her voice dripping with artificial disgust, though deep inside, her heart was singing with wicked joy. This was exactly what she and Bianca had planned.
Alita tearfully cradled her burning cheek, her glassy, terrified eyes instantly flying to her father. Marshal was glaring at her with such cold, venomous hatred that Alita felt as though she were being buried alive.
"Dad, I swear... I can explain. It's not what you think," Alita whimpered, her voice trembling as she backed away.
"I certainly hope not," Marshal declared, his voice cutting like ice as he stood up, not even looking at her like she was human. "Because I won't hesitate to get rid of whatever dirty trash is growing inside of you." Without another word, he turned and stormed up the stairs.
City Hospital,
Mexico City —
9:46 AM
The sterile white walls of the waiting room felt like a prison. Marshal, Emilia, and Alita sat in a brutal, silent row, the tension thick enough to choke on. Alita could hear the frantic, erratic beating of her own heart against her ribs.
After what felt like an eternity, the heavy wooden door swung open. A doctor stepped out, holding a folder.
"The results are processed, Mr. Brown," the doctor said, his expression grave. "It turns out to be positive. Your daughter is pregnant."
"Get rid of it," Rodrigo replied instantly, his voice flat, brutal, and completely devoid of emotion. He didn't even spare his daughter a single glance.
"Dad, I can't just get rid—"
"Then you might as well pack your things and get out of my house, Alita," Marshal cut her off, his eyes flashing with cold finality. "You have a very simple choice. Either you abort that trash, or you cease to be a Brown.
"Hearing those words, something snapped deep inside Alita.
It was so incredibly shameless. It was disgusting how this man spoke as if he actually had a right to the Brown name. The wealth, the estate, the legacy—it all belonged to her mother’s bloodline. In his desperate greed to take over as the President of the family company, he had shamelessly dropped his own birth name, Marshall Rodrigo, and legally changed it to Marshal Brown just to look legitimate.
He had married her mother for her money. He had never been a real husband, and he had certainly never been a father to Alita. She had spent nineteen years taking his cruelty, but looking at his cold, arrogant face, she realized she was done being afraid. Last night, weeping in her bedroom, she had promised herself she would stand up. She would protect this tiny life inside her, even if she had to do it entirely alone.
Alita straightened her spine, blinking away her tears. Her voice came out steady, sharp, and ringing with a quiet dignity he didn't expect.
"I will leave your house, Dad," Alita said, the word Dad tasting like ash in her mouth. "But I want you to know one thing. Leaving will never make me cease to be a Brown. Because the last time I checked the legal deeds, I am the rightful heir to my mother's empire. Not some pathetic gold-digger who married her for her money
."The room went dead silent. Emilia and the doctor gasped. Marshal’s face twisted in pure, shocked fury—never in his wildest dreams did he think the quiet, submissive Alita would ever dare to look him in the eye, let alone walk out on him.
Before he could say a word, Alita turned on her heel, pushed open the heavy glass doors, and let them slam shut behind her with a definitive bang.
Stepping out onto the bustling streets of Mexico City, the reality of what she had just done washed over her. She couldn't go back to the mansion. She had, no home, and a baby on the way.
There was only one place left to go. Her boyfriend’s apartment was just a few blocks away. A deep pang of guilt struck her chest—she hadn't told him a single thing about what happened three weeks ago. She had been too ashamed. But as she hailed a passing yellow cab and climbed inside, she squeezed her eyes shut. She had to tell him the truth now.
She was carrying a stranger's child, and she had nowhere else to turn.
- Writer
