Chapter 15
SAVANNAH
I wake up with my stomach churning.
The alarm on my phone is blaring, but I can’t move. Can’t do anything except lie here and try not to throw up. This is the third morning in a row.
I fumble for my phone and silence the alarm, then force myself to sit up slowly. The nausea rolls through me in waves, and I have to breathe through my mouth until it passes.
Stress. It has to be stress.
The last week has been insane. Remembering Vegas. Falling in love with my husband all over again. It makes sense that my body is reacting to all the emotional chaos.
I convinced Ledger to let me keep my apartment for a few more weeks. Told him I needed time to adjust, to pack my things properly, to not feel like I was being rushed into moving in. He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood.
Or at least, he pretended to understand while making me promise to spend weekends at the penthouse.
The bathroom is cold, and I splash water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror. I look tired. Pale. Like I haven’t been sleeping well, which is true because every time I’m alone in this apartment, I miss him.
I get dressed in a burgundy pencil skirt and white blouse, my go-to work outfit, and force myself to eat a piece of toast that tastes like cardboard. The nausea has settled into a low hum in my stomach, manageable but persistent.
The subway ride to work is packed as usual. I wedge myself into a corner and close my eyes, trying not to think about the smell of coffee and sweat and whatever the guy next to me had for breakfast.
At the office, Jenna is already at her desk. “Morning,” she says. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks. You’re a real confidence booster.”
“I’m serious. Are you sick?” She locks eyes with mine.
“I’m perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Uh-huh. And I’m dating Chris Hemsworth.” She goes back to typing. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”
I settle at my desk and pull up my emails. There are seventeen new messages, most of which are about the Q4 campaign launching next month. I start reading through them, but my brain won’t focus.
My phone pings with a message.
Ledger: Good morning, wife. How did you sleep?
I give a small smile.
Me: Alone. It’s terrible. How did YOU sleep?
Ledger: Also alone. Also terrible. Come back to the penthouse tonight.
Me: I’ll think about it.
Ledger: That’s not a no.
Me: It’s not a yes either.
Ledger: I miss you.
My chest aches.
Me: I miss you too.
Ledger: Then stop being stubborn and come home.
Me: Maybe.
Ledger: I’m taking that as a yes. I’ll have Antoine prepare your favorite dinner.
Me: You don’t even know what my favorite dinner is.
Ledger: I know everything about you, princess, including the fact that you love Antoine’s lobster risotto.
He’s right. I do love that.
Me: Fine. I’ll come over tonight.
Ledger: Good. I’ll see you at home. And Savannah?
Me: Yeah?
Ledger: I love you.
Me: I love you too.
I set my phone down, still smiling, and try to focus on work. But my mind keeps drifting. To him. To the life I’m building with a man I barely knew a month ago.
Then something occurs to me. I pull up the calendar on my phone and scroll back. Count the days. Count them again.
I’m late. Not just a day or two. More than a week. My heart starts pounding.
No. It’s just stress. Stress can mess with cycles. That’s normal.
Except I’m also nauseous every morning. And exhausted. And my breasts have been tender for days.
Oh God.
I grab my phone and search for clinics near the office. There’s one three blocks away that does walk-ins. I can go during lunch, be back before anyone notices.
The morning drags. Every email feels like it takes an hour to read, and the meetings are torture. By the time noon rolls around, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin.
“Going to lunch?” Jenna asks as I grab my purse.
“Yeah. Need some air.”
“Want company?”
“No. I mean, I’m just running an errand. I’ll be quick.”
She gives me a look but doesn’t push. “Okay. Text me if you need anything.”
I take the elevator down to the lobby, my heart racing. The building is busy with people leaving for lunch, and I weave through the crowd toward the exit.
That’s when I see him.
Alexi.
He’s walking into the building, talking on his phone, looking exactly like his father with that same confident stride. He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, casual in a way that makes him look even younger.
My stepson. Who’s twenty-two. Only three years younger than me.
I duck behind a group of people heading out, keeping my head down.
This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding from a kid who’s barely younger than me.
But I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t face him and make small talk and pretend I’m not completely weirded out by the fact that I might be pregnant.
He disappears into the elevator, and I slip out the door before he can see me.
The street is busy with lunch traffic. I hail a cab and give the driver the clinic address, then sit back and try to calm my racing pulse.
I feel like I’m being watched. It’s paranoid, I know. But as the cab pulls away from the curb, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s eyes are on me.
I glance out the rear window, but there’s nothing unusual. Just cars and people and the normal chaos of New York.
Get it together, Savannah.
The clinic is in a nondescript building between a deli and a dry cleaner. The waiting room is small and cramped, with uncomfortable plastic chairs and magazines that are at least two years old. I check in at the front desk, filling out forms with shaking hands.
There are three other people waiting. A woman in her thirties reading a book. A teenager with her mother. An older man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Savannah Castellanos?” a nurse calls from the doorway after I wait for ten minutes.
I follow her back through a hallway painted pale yellow, to a small office at the end. She takes my vitals, asks about my symptoms, and then leaves me alone to wait.
The room is cold. There’s a poster on the wall about prenatal vitamins. Another about STD prevention. A calendar from 2023 that no one bothered to take down.
A knock, and the door opens. The doctor who walks in is young, maybe early thirties, with dark skin and bright eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a white coat over scrubs, and his name tag says Dr. James Williams.
“Ms. Castellanos.” He sits down and pulls up my chart on the computer. “So you think you might be pregnant?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m late, and I’ve been feeling nauseous.”
“Let’s find out.” He’s relaxed, easy, like we’re talking about the weather. “When was your last period?”
I tell him, and he nods, typing notes.
“And you’ve been sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“Any chance of pregnancy from your partner?”
“Definitely.”
He grins. “Alright. We’ll do a quick test and see what we’re working with. Then if it’s positive, we’ll do an ultrasound to confirm and see how far along you are.”
The test takes five minutes of me sitting in the cold exam room, staring at the ceiling tiles and trying not to think about what this means.
A knock, and Dr. Williams comes back in, holding a folder. “Congratulations,” he says with a warm smile. “You’re pregnant.”
The world seems to tilt for a minute.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive test. Now let’s get that ultrasound and see how far along you are.”
The ultrasound room is even smaller, with a machine that looks like something from a sci-fi movie. Dr. Williams has me lie back on the table, and the gel he squirts on my stomach is freezing.
“This might be a little uncomfortable,” he warns, pressing the wand against my skin.
The screen flickers, and then there it is. A tiny blob.
“That’s the embryo,” Dr. Williams says, pointing at the screen. “Based on the measurements, I’d say you’re about six weeks along. Give or take a few days.”
Six weeks.
“Everything looks healthy,” Dr. Williams continues. “Nice strong heartbeat. I’ll print you some pictures, and we’ll get you set up with prenatal vitamins and a follow-up appointment.”
He’s still talking, but I’m not really hearing him. Just staring at that tiny blob on the screen that’s apparently a baby.
“Ms. Castellanos?” Dr. Williams’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just processing.”
“It’s a lot to take in.” He hands me a tissue to wipe the gel off. “Take your time. And if you have questions later, don’t hesitate to call.”
He prints out two pictures of the ultrasound and hands them to me. The tiny blob that’s going to change my entire life.
“Congratulations again,” he says with that easy smile. “And good luck. You’re going to be great.”
I leave the clinic in a daze, clutching the ultrasound pictures and a folder full of information about prenatal care and what to expect in the first trimester.
The street is still busy. People rushing past, talking on phones, living their normal lives, while mine has just been completely upended.
I’m pregnant.
I’m going to have a baby.
Ledger’s baby.