Chapter 40 Charlie
CHARLIE
I wake to nausea rolling through my stomach like a wave, my body clammy with sweat despite the cool morning air filtering through my apartment window.
The ceiling spins slightly as I force myself upright, gripping the edge of the mattress until the room steadies.
This has been happening for days now, this bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep seems to cure, but I’ve been pushing through it.
Working double shifts at the diner. Volunteering at the church. Navigating the careful dance of being with three men while the Bishop’s investigation circles closer.
Sleep has become a luxury I can’t afford, stolen in brief moments between their schedules and my own spiraling anxiety.
I drag myself to the shower, letting cold water shock my system into something resembling alertness.
My reflection in the mirror looks hollow, dark circles under my hazel eyes. I’ve lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose, my clothes hanging looser than they did a month ago.
But there’s no time to worry about that now. Maggie Anderson is expecting me at The Flour Pot in an hour, and I can’t be late. Not when this job represents everything I’ve been working toward.
Independence. Purpose.
A future that doesn’t depend on working off a debt or hiding in shadows.
The bakery smells like heaven when I arrive, all butter and sugar and fresh bread. Maggie greets me with her usual warm smile, her gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, flour already dusting her apron. “Morning, Charlie. You ready to tackle the morning rush?”
I nod, forcing energy I don’t feel into my voice. “Absolutely.”
The morning passes in a blur of mixing dough and shaping loaves.
My hands move through familiar motions while my mind drifts to last night.
Marcus’s body pressed against mine in the choir loft, his tattooed hands gripping my hips while he whispered Spanish against my throat.
The way Adrian watched from the doorway, his gray eyes dark with hunger he was fighting to control. Elijah’s blue gaze tracking every movement, his angel face flushed with want.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly despite the nausea still churning there.
I’m mixing dough for cinnamon rolls when the room tilts sideways.
The bowl slips from my hands, crashing to the floor in an explosion of flour and ceramic shards.
I reach for the counter to steady myself, but my legs won’t support my weight anymore.
The floor rushes up to meet me, and I have just enough time to think this is going to hurt before strong hands catch me.
“Charlie!” Maggie’s voice sounds distant, muffled like I’m underwater. “I’m calling 911!”
I try to tell her I’m fine, that I just need a moment, but the words won’t form.
My vision narrows to a tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges.
I can hear Maggie’s worried voice giving our address to the dispatcher, can feel her hand stroking my hair back from my face, but I can’t seem to make my body respond.
The ambulance ride is a blur of Maggie’s worried face hovering above me and paramedics asking questions I can barely process.
When did the nausea start?
Have I been eating regularly?
Any history of fainting?
I mumble answers that probably don’t make sense, my mind too foggy to form coherent thoughts. All I can focus on is the way the ambulance sways with each turn, making my stomach lurch dangerously.
The hospital emergency room is too bright, too loud, too much. A young doctor with kind eyes and tired features guides me to an examination table, her movements efficient but gentle.
She asks more questions while checking my vitals, her pen scratching across a clipboard. I stare at the ceiling tiles and try to calculate when I last had a period.
The realization hits like a physical blow.
Eight weeks. Maybe nine. I’ve been so consumed with the Bishop’s investigation, with Diane’s threats, Isabella’s presence, and Sarah’s accusations, that I didn’t notice my body’s most basic rhythm had stopped.
The exhaustion, the nausea, the emotional volatility I attributed to stress. It all clicks into place with horrifying clarity.
“Miss Davis?” The doctor’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I’d like to run a pregnancy test. Just to rule it out.”
My throat closes completely. I manage a nod, unable to form words past the panic flooding my system.
The wait feels eternal. I lie on the examination table staring at the fluorescent lights overhead, my hands twisted together on my stomach.
A stomach that might be carrying a baby.
A baby I didn’t plan for, didn’t prepare for, can’t possibly be ready for.
My mind spins through implications faster than I can process them.
The fact that I’ve been with all three of them, that any of them could be the father.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
The doctor returns, her expression carefully neutral in that way medical professionals have when they’re about to deliver news that will change everything.
She sits on the rolling stool beside the examination table, her clipboard resting on her lap.
“The test is positive, Miss Davis. You’re pregnant. Based on your last period, I’d estimate you’re about eight weeks along.”
The words hit like stones dropping into still water, ripples spreading outward until they consume everything. I’m carrying a baby. A tiny life growing inside me that’s part of me and part of…who?
Adrian with his severe beauty and barely controlled violence?
Marcus with his protective fury and Spanish whispers?
Elijah with his angel face and filthy imagination?
I have no idea which of the three men is the father.
“Miss Davis?” The doctor’s voice is gentle, concerned. “Do you have someone I can call? The baby’s father? Family?”
I shake my head mutely. Diane would probably try to use this for blackmail. Grandma Rose is still recovering from her stroke. And the fathers—plural—are three men of God whose lives I’m about to destroy completely.
The doctor continues talking about prenatal care, about vitamins and appointments and things I should avoid. I nod at appropriate moments, but I’m not really hearing her.
All I can think about is Adrian’s face when I tell him. Marcus’s protective fury that will have nowhere to direct itself. Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes filling with fear and wonder in equal measure.
This changes everything. The Bishop’s investigation, the careful distance we’ve been maintaining, the future we’ve been trying to protect.
All of it becomes irrelevant in the face of this single fact.
I’m pregnant, and there’s no hiding it, no pretending it away, and no going back.
Maggie drives me back to the church, her hands steady on the wheel while mine shake in my lap.
She asks gentle questions I deflect with vague answers about low blood sugar and not eating enough.
I can feel her worried gaze on me at every stoplight, but she doesn’t push.
Just promises to hold my position at the bakery until I’m feeling better, tells me to take care of myself, and makes me promise to call if I need anything.
I find them in the parish hall, the three of them gathered around a table covered in documents.
Probably more evidence against Whitmore, more strategies for surviving the Bishop’s investigation.
They look up when I enter, and the moment they see my face, everything else stops.
Adrian’s gray eyes sharpen with immediate concern.
Marcus straightens from where he’s been leaning over the table, his tattooed arms tensing.
Elijah’s heavenly face goes pale, his blue eyes widening.
“Charlie?” Adrian’s voice is rough with worry. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t do this here. Can’t say the words that will shatter everything in a space where anyone could walk in. “I need to talk to you. All of you. Privately.”
They exchange weighted glances, and I watch understanding dawn that this is serious.
Adrian leads the way to his quarters, Marcus and Elijah following close behind.
I bring up the rear, my legs unsteady, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can hear it.
Adrian’s quarters feel too small for the four of us and the bomb I’m about to detonate.
I stand in the center of the room while they arrange themselves around me.
Adrian stands by the window, his broad shoulders blocking the afternoon light.
Marcus leans against the desk, his dark eyes tracking every tremor running through my body.
Elijah perches on the edge of the bed, his lean frame coiled with tension.
They’re all watching me with growing concern, and I can see them cataloging details.
The way my hands won’t stop shaking.
The pallor of my skin.
The fact that I’m still wearing my bakery clothes, flour dusting my jeans.
I force myself to meet their eyes, to not look away like a coward. They deserve the truth, no matter how devastating.
“I collapsed at work this morning.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “They took me to the hospital. Ran tests.”
Adrian moves closer instinctively, his hand rising toward my face before he catches himself.
The aborted gesture makes my chest ache. Even now, even in private, we’re so careful about touching. “Are you okay? What happened?”
I take a breath that feels like it might be my last. “I’m pregnant.”
The silence that follows is deafening. I watch the words land, see them process what I’ve said. Adrian goes completely still, his gray eyes widening.
Marcus’s face drains of color, his arms dropping to his sides.
Elijah makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a prayer, his blue eyes filling with something I can’t name.
“About eight weeks along.” My voice cracks, but I push through. “And I don’t…I don’t know which of you is the father.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications none of us are ready to face.
I watch their faces, trying to read their reactions, terrified of what I’ll see.
Anger? Disgust? Rejection?
The fear that’s been my constant companion since childhood rises up, choking me. Everyone leaves. This will make them leave.
Adrian’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his rosary beads cutting into his palm.
I can see him fighting himself, fighting the violence that’s always simmering beneath his priestly exterior.
Marcus’s jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind, his dark eyes burning with emotions too complicated to name.
Elijah’s angel face has gone carefully blank, but his hands shake where they grip the edge of the bed.
“Say something,” I whisper, my voice breaking completely. “Please. Say anything.”
The silence that follows feels eternal.