27. Sasha
27
SASHA
“Sasha, you’re pregnant.”
The words drop like a brick in the middle of the sterile, overly white doctor’s office.
I blink. Once. Twice.
“I’m what?”
Melanie grips my hand so tightly I might lose circulation. She turns and stares at me like I just got hit by a truck. Which, to be fair, is exactly how it feels.
The doctor smiles gently like she didn’t just casually detonate my entire life. “Pregnant. Just about six weeks, based on your symptoms and the blood work. Congratulations!”
Congratulations.
That’s a funny word.
It feels like a punch.
“Oh my God,” Melanie breathes next to me, practically crushing my fingers. “Sash. You’re pregnant.”
“I heard her,” I croak, voice dry.
The doctor keeps talking—something about vitamins, follow-up appointments, prenatal care—but her voice blurs into static, like a radio losing signal.
I sit numb, staring at the chart, not really seeing anything.
It’s been a two weeks since Damien dropped me off like I was dry cleaning he didn’t want anymore. Two weeks of pretending to be fine. Two weeks of nausea, backaches, bloating, and crying while brushing my teeth for no reason.
Morning sickness? That name’s a joke. It’s an all-day, all-consuming, soul-draining nausea festival that doesn’t even have snacks.
My boobs hurt. My sense of smell is out of control. I cried over a dog food commercial yesterday. Dog food.
I’ve thrown up in my work bathroom. Twice.
I’ve thrown up at a crosswalk. Once.
I cried in a Walgreens because they were out of pickles. That one wasn’t even hormone-related. I just really wanted pickles.
And now this.
Pregnant.
Knocked up.
With Damien Zaitsev’s baby.
Damien. God, just thinking his name hurts now. After he dropped me at the apartment, things went from bad to worse. Missing my period felt more like a footnote rather than a red flag until Melanie dragged me here.
Six weeks.
Just a few weeks ago, I was still with Damien, waking up in his bed, feeling safe, stupidly happy, clueless about what was coming.
Now, I’m here.
Pregnant. Alone. In a cold exam room, wearing a paper gown, holding my roommate’s hand, because the man who put this baby inside me is too dangerous to even contact.
What am I supposed to do now?
“Sash?” Melanie nudges me softly. “You okay?”
I snap back into myself, forcing a nod. “Fine. Totally fine.”
But I’m not fine.
I’m terrified.
Ten minutes later, I’m lying down on a crinkly paper sheet in a darkened room, my jeans unbuttoned, belly exposed, and heart threatening to beat its way through my ribs.
The machine next to me whirs to life, and the ultrasound technician squeezes a generous amount of cold gel onto my stomach. I flinch. Melanie whispers “yikes” beside me. I want to laugh and throw up at the same time.
“Okay,” the tech says, moving the wand over my skin with calm precision. “Let’s take a look.”
The screen flickers. Blurry black and white static, little flashes of shadow and light. I have no idea what I’m looking at.
Then the technician pauses. Points.
“There.”
I squint. “That blob?”
She laughs gently. “That’s your baby.”
It’s small. So small it barely looks like anything, just a little curve of grey against the dark. But it’s there. Real.
And then she turns the volume up.
I hear it. A fast, strong, impossibly tiny heartbeat.
I cover my mouth with one hand, my throat locking tight. I don’t know when the tears start falling. One second I’m squinting at the screen and the next I’m crying like I’ve been holding it in for years.
Melanie squeezes my arm, her voice soft. “Oh, Sash…”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
I’m still scared. Still confused. Still completely overwhelmed.
But for a moment—just a small, blurry moment on a screen—I feel something else.
Hope.
My baby.
I bite my lip so hard it hurts, eyes stinging. The tears come without warning, warm and relentless.
Melanie gently squeezes my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, just holds me there, quiet. Solid.
I’m scared.
Confused.
But also, weirdly—happy?
God, this is confusing.
* * *
The cab hums around us, New York moving outside the windows like it always does—loud and fast and messy.
Melanie clears her throat. “It’s his, isn’t it?”
I keep my eyes on the window, pretending to be interested in a dog dragging its owner down the sidewalk.
“Damien,” she adds. “Your boss. Or…ex, I guess.”
I don’t answer.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she says gently. “But I think I already know.”
I swallow and finally glance at her. “We’re not…together.”
“So, you’re broken up.”
“Not that we were ever officially anything. It’s complicated.”
She nods like she gets it. “Do you want me to contact him?”
That jolts me. “No,” I say immediately, too fast, too firm. “Absolutely not.”
Melanie blinks. “Okay. I just thought—he has a right to know, doesn’t he?”
I shake my head, the fear suddenly crawling back in. “You don’t understand. Damien is…dangerous. He’s not just some rich CEO. He’s tied up in things that are dark and violent and…it’s not safe.”
“But he wouldn’t hurt you,” she says.
“No. Not directly,” I admit. “But being near him is like being on a battlefield with a blindfold. And I already got caught in the crossfire once.”
And then there’s Nina. He says it’s over. But she’s always there . Always hovering like a perfume you can’t wash off. And I’m just some…blip in his world.
A temporary distraction. I was never meant to stick.
But I don’t say that part out loud. “I’m just a blip.”
Melanie leans her head back against the seat and looks at me. “And this baby?
I open my mouth. Then close it again.
She waits.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Yes, you do.”
My eyes burn. “I’m scared.”
“Of him?”
“Of everything,” I whisper. “Of being alone. Of screwing this up. Of becoming my mom. Of telling him and watching him shut down and look at me like I ruined everything.”
Melanie’s voice softens. “Do you want to keep it?”
I stare down at the blurry shape on the scan again. My throat tightens.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say. “But…I think I already love it.”
Melanie doesn’t say anything for a long time, just reaches over and gently holds my hand.
And for once, I don’t feel alone.
Even if I’ll have to face the rest of it completely on my own.
* * *
The office feels smaller when you know people are whispering behind your back.
They don’t even try to be subtle. I hear it the moment I step out of the elevator. The low murmur of conversations that trail off when I pass by, the shift in eye contact, the sudden interest in pretending to work really hard on that spreadsheet when I’m within earshot.
And Brittany—Queen of Passive Aggression herself—is leading the charge.
She doesn’t say anything directly. Of course not. That would require a spine. But I see her whispering to Alyssa by the coffee machine, both of them glancing my way like I’m an alien that crash-landed in their cubicle galaxy.
Still, I keep my chin up and march to my desk like I don’t hear a thing. Like I’m not carrying a thousand things in my chest—uncertainty, hormones, morning sickness wrapped in ginger candy wrappers and hope taped together with denial.
I’m fine. Totally fine.
Except for the part where I still miss Damien.
But hey. I’m vertical, dressed, and technically employed. That counts for something.
I log into my computer, check my emails, and resist the urge to hurl my desk phone into the sun. Everything feels louder today—the clacking of keyboards, the hiss of the espresso machine across the floor, the clicking heels of Brittany as she parades around like she just got promoted to CEO of Gossip.
At least I haven’t run into Damien.
Yet.
I heard someone say he’s out of town for the week. Off to some investor summit or something that requires expensive suits, intimidating stares, and definitely no mention of the girl he got pregnant and then ghosted.
That’s fine by me.
Better than fine.
Perfect, actually.
It gives me a window. A quiet, drama-free exit.
I’ll finish the week. Submit my resignation. Vanish like a badly formatted PowerPoint slide.
No more office tension. No more awkward stares. No more Damien.
And definitely no more Brittany whispering I told you so with her eyes.
I grip the edge of my desk.
I can do this.
I can leave before anything else gets harder, before Damien finds out I’m pregnant with his child.
* * *
I find Ryan by the vending machine, trying to convince a bag of chips to fall like it’s a negotiation.
“Hey,” I say, hands in my pockets.
He turns, surprised. “Oh. Hey.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry…for bailing on you all those weeks ago,” I say quickly. “It wasn’t intentional. I had a lot going on.”
He gives a small, lopsided smile. “It’s okay. I figured something came up, and I know you’ve been out sick. I was just glad you texted. And glad you’re feeling better.”
There’s a pause. The machine finally gives up the chips with a dramatic thud, like even it’s over the tension.
“So…” he says, casually leaning against the wall. “Want to try again? Dinner? No pressure. Just…no dramatic cancellations this time?”
I wince, but I don’t leave him hanging. “Ryan, I really appreciate it. I do. But I’m not in a place right now to date anyone.”
His smile falters just slightly, like someone turned the brightness down on his face.
“Is it because of him?” he asks, quietly.
“I guess you’ve heard the rumors then,” I say bitterly.
“Are they just rumors, though?” he says, raising a brow.
I look away. “Believe what you want to believe.”
“Did he whisk you off to some grand vacation for the last few weeks?” he says. “I mean, I can’t compete with that.”
“He didn’t do—” I stop. “Actually, I don’t think I can do anything to explain myself that will actually make you believe me.”
“Holy shit,” he says. “You like him, don’t you?”
I open my mouth but then close it shut.
“It’s because of a lot of things. Life things. I’ve got stuff going on, and it wouldn’t be fair to string you along,” I say. “That’s the truth.”
He nods slowly, pressing his lips together. “Okay. I respect that.”
I breathe out, relieved that he’s taking it well.
His phone buzzes in his hand. He checks the screen and immediately straightens up. “I gotta take this. Sorry.”
He steps a few feet away, turning his back slightly.
I’m about to walk off when I hear it—his voice dipping low, just audible enough.
“Yeah, hey. I can’t talk long… No, I didn’t ask yet. You told me to wait. She said no anyway… I know, I know. I’ll keep you posted, Nina.”
Nina?
I pause, eyes narrowing.
I didn’t mean to listen, but it’s not a name I expected. Nina.
As in, that Nina?
But no. That’s ridiculous. Nina is a common name. There are probably hundreds of Ninas in New York alone. Could be his sister. Could be a client. Could be anyone.
I shake my head. Before I think more about it, Ryan returns. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just…tired.”
His eyes search mine. “If you need anything. Seriously. You can talk to me.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. I really do. Ryan’s a good guy.
Too good to be caught up in my storm.
I wave goodbye and step into the hallway, riding the elevator down to the lobby.
By the time I’m home, I feel like I’ve been walking around with bricks in my chest all day. I kick off my shoes, collapse onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling until my phone buzzes.
Mom.
I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the green button. Then I press it.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, voice warm and scratchy like always, like the edge of a knitted blanket. “I was just thinking about you.”
That’s all it takes.
My throat clenches. My eyes sting. And suddenly, I’m crying. The kind of crying you hold in until it comes out messy and hiccupping.
“Oh, honey,” she says immediately. “What’s wrong?”
I wipe at my eyes, failing miserably. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Sasha. Talk to me.”
I curl into myself on the couch, knees hugged to my chest, and try to answer, but the words come out choked and wet.
“Sweetheart?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There. It’s out.
And I swear the silence that follows is long enough to age me five years.
But then she exhales, and it’s not disappointment I hear but the opposite.
That quiet, reliable kindness she always has in emergencies, like the time Ben got his finger stuck in a juice box straw and we thought he’d lose circulation.
“Oh, honey…” she says. “Okay. Okay. Talk to me. Start from the beginning.”
“I found out a few days ago,” I whisper. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I kept thinking maybe if I ignored it, it’d just…go away.”
She doesn’t rush me. She waits.
“I was supposed to get a better job. Move you and Ben to the city. Fix everything,” I go on. “Instead I threw up in a Walgreens parking lot and cried at a bus ad for yogurt.”
She chuckles softly. “Was it the one with the cow in sunglasses?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, that one gets me too.”
I laugh and cry at the same time, the kind of laugh that sounds like it’s limping.
“I messed everything up.”
“No,” she says gently. “You just took a different turn, that’s all. Life doesn’t always go according to the plan. Doesn’t mean the destination changed.”
I’m quiet for a moment.
Then I admit, almost afraid to hear myself say it, “The baby’s father…he reminds me of Dad.”
That brings another beat of silence.
“In what way?” she asks.
“He’s…in control. Powerful. Has a whole world I don’t understand. And I thought maybe I could handle it, but now I don’t know. He hides everything. One minute I thought he cared, the next he was gone. Like a light switch. And I think—I think I was in love with him.”
My mom hums thoughtfully, like she’s letting that sit before responding.
“You know what made your father a bad man?” she says finally. “It wasn’t his temper. Or his secrets. It was that he always put himself first. Even when we begged him not to.”
I swallow hard.
“You said this man left,” she continues. “But did he hurt you?”
I think of Damien. His silence. His rage when I was in danger. The way he touches me like I’m made of glass and war all at once.
“No,” I whisper. “Not really. He just shut me out.”
“Well,” she says. “Then he still has a chance to be better. You don’t have to judge him by your father’s mistakes. And you don’t have to carry them like they’re yours.”
I press the ultrasound photo tighter against my chest, closing my eyes.
“Even if he never comes back,” she adds, “you’re not alone, Sasha. And this baby? This baby’s not a disaster. It’s a beginning. And if this man…whatever he is to you…if he ever truly put you first, even once, then he’s already made a better choice than your father ever did.”
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in days, I don’t feel the panic swallowing me whole.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too. You’re going to be okay, baby girl. No matter what.”
And I believe her.
For just a moment—I actually believe her.