25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Natalie
I ’m having the worst day of my life.
In theory, that isn’t necessarily true. If you weigh the variables of the past couple of weeks—from getting my heart shattered by a man who hid his true self from me to the horrifying possibility that he might have had a hand in my parents’ deaths… then a little dizziness is nothing.
The nausea creeping up my throat must be a stomach bug—or the aftermath of consuming way too many sweets.
Overloading processed sugar has become my guilty pleasure lately, a crutch I lean on when reality feels too unbearable. Then again, I’ve been really peculiar about my cravings. I don’t know if they added a new ingredient to the gummy bears, but they taste amazing .
Proving my point, I dig my hand into the front pocket of my overalls and grab a handful of gummy bears. I look towards the open door and shove them into my mouth when I see that no one is watching.
Guilt cloaks me as I chomp down, but I remind myself that I’ve been compensating for the endless sugar intake by covering back-to-back gigs. I’ve been working nonstop, making plans and dealing with people, that each night when I cuddle an ice cream bowl, I tell myself it’s well deserved.
“Phew,” I exhale, reaching mindlessly for the nagging ache just above my spine. “I need to sit.”
Before I can grab a seat, a child strolls into the kitchen of the house where I’ll be stuck for the next couple of hours—his mouth covered in cake icing. “My mom says I should tell you that it’s almost time for the hor d’oeuvres,” he says.
“Oh, I—”
His errand must’ve interrupted his cake-gorging because he turns and promptly exits the kitchen without waiting for a response.
I sigh, staring at the open door. “I don’t blame you, buddy. If I had my way, I’d be shoving cake into my mouth, too.”
Even as I say the word, I feel bile crawl up to the back of my throat. I make a face of grimace and swallow hard, shoving it down. I’m not about to throw up over my hard work.
I spent hours perfecting the hors d’oeuvres selection because the host—the cake boy’s mom—was determined to throw a party so flawless that people would leave raving about her impeccable taste.
Correction: my impeccable taste.
I decorated the house, baked the cakes, and painstakingly assembled the cranberry crostinis, which she insisted would be done unconventionally .
“Who cares about praise?” I mutter, dragging my exhausted body into a chair and plopping down. “As long as the check clears, I’m happy.”
It doesn’t matter that I had to bite my tongue through her endless critiques. Or that I fought the urge to remind her that I’ve worked for the Cross family—one of the most powerful names in the city—and even they weren’t this impossible to please.
Cake boy pops his head into the kitchen minutes later, this time with a disgruntled frown. “My mom says she’s not paying you to do things…” he rubs his hair as he tries to remember, “in your own time.”
He’s gone again, but I don’t even bother to chase after him with a response.
“Time to get to work, Natalie. Put on your best smile, act like you’re happy to be here, and make your exit.”
I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on me. I push myself off the chair, hoping that the sudden movement will spark some much-needed energy.
But as I stand, my vision blurs, and my knees betray me, buckling beneath me. My hand shoots out to steady myself, but it finds nothing. I feel the surreal moment stretch before me as I watch my body tip over, helpless to stop it. In what feels like slow motion, my face crashes into the floor.
Everything goes black.
When I come to, I’m lying on the floor in a room full of people with an endless number of eyes staring at me.
It takes a moment for the embarrassment to kick in—it floods my face with enough heat to awaken a dormant volcano. I stagger to my feet, wincing and barreling through the pain that shoots through my body at the motion .
“I’m sorry,” I lower my head, too mortified to face them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Mean to what? Collapse? Kiss the floor and turn the lights out? Or disappoint my client who’s staring daggers at me? I don’t have to see her face to know that she’s giving me a lethal glare.
“Are you okay, darling?” I hear a compassionate voice from the throng. Footsteps approach me, and I see a pair of stilettos. Swallowing my shame and clinging to her empathy, I lift my head slightly.
“You should go see a doctor,” she adds, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You have a nasty bump on your forehead.”
I shake my head firmly, dismissing her worry. My voice cracks. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” From the corner of my eye, I see the client. Her mouth is set in an angry line, and she’s mouthing the words, “ get out.”
Right.
Right. I should leave.
Without another word, I turn around and retreat to the kitchen, mumbling something incoherent and desperate for an escape route.
***
Thirty minutes after taking the back route of the house, I find myself heading for the hospital. The gummies in my pockets are now a ruined mess— did I squish them when I fell?— and the bump is a throbbing mass of everything I can’t endure.
The cab driver drops me outside the hospital, and I walk in, patiently waiting to see a doctor. I finally get my turn, and he sits behind his weathered desk, leaning back with his white coat unbuttoned.
“How did you fall? ”
I shrug. “Face down?”
He doesn’t smile. I shouldn’t have made the joke.
“I felt dizzy,” I explain. “I was working all day, and I must’ve been very tired.”
He rubs his chin, a thoughtful expression covering his face. “Did you start feeling dizzy today? Have you had any other symptoms recently?”
One brow curls upward, and the other furrows as I stare at him in confusion. What does that have to do with falling and getting a bump?
But he’s the doctor, and I’m not, so I oblige. “Yes. It’s been going on for over a week now. It’s just dizziness and fatigue. I should probably lay off for a while. I’m sure I need some rest,” I add, more to myself than as a response to his question.
“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll prescribe something for the pain and swelling, but I also need you to do a test. To eliminate other possibilities,” he adds when my eyes widen, and he cracks a smile.
Somehow, the smile makes me feel even less assured.
***
How many hours did it take for my life to fall apart?
I stare at the envelope in my hands, the shock from earlier still coursing through my system. I’ve read the contents of the result over and over, yet it still feels surreal.
I’m pregnant.
The words hidden in the brown envelope glow through the thick layer as my hand trembles. They are hard facts printed in clinical ink, stripping away any chance of denial .
There’s life inside me—growing, shifting, existing beyond the cravings, beyond the nausea and the exhaustion I brushed off as stress. It’s been there longer than I realized, quietly taking root while I remained oblivious.
Ethan’s baby.
How? When? Where? Stupid questions, pointless distractions—because I already know the answers. My mind clings to them, desperate for something solid to hold onto before reality crashes in full force.
I don’t want to think about the others— what do I do with the baby? Where do I go from here—without losing the thread of shock that’s tethering me to sanity?
My phone rings, cutting through the daze of my thoughts, and I reach into my bag, performing an ingrained action mindlessly.
Danielle’s name flashes through the screen. I can barely hear my voice as I speak. “Hi.”
The silence stretches too long. I know it. Danielle knows it.
“Natalie?” Her voice is more insistent now, tinged with concern. “Where are you? I can come pick you up.”
No. I can’t see her right now. I can’t see anyone. The weight of my reality is too heavy, pressing down on me, suffocating me. I want to crawl into a dark, quiet space where the world can’t reach me. But I can’t. There’s no escape from this.
I stare out the window at the rush of life outside—people moving, cars honking, conversations blending into the hum of the city. It all feels distant, like I’m no longer part of it, like I’m watching from behind glass, slowly sinking.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words spill out before I can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but loud enough to shatter everything between us .
The line goes dead silent. Then, a sharp inhale.
“What?” Danielle’s voice is different now—softer, careful like she’s afraid I might break.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone tighter as if that might keep me together. “I’m pregnant, Dany.”
A pause. A long, heavy pause.
Then, in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard from her, she asks, “Where are you?”
Right now, I’d rather be anywhere else but in my own skin.