Charlotte
The stylus hovered over the tablet screen, tapping impatiently. Two perfect prams. One with Swiss wheels, the other with a bassinet that converted to a toddler seat. My pros-and-cons list was a lost cause—both options had “will spoil my child rotten” written in bright red.
The nursery mocked my indecision. Ready and waiting. I’d painted the walls in various shades of soft blue and grey. The floating shelves were prepared for picture books, and even stencilled constellations along the ceiling.
My two-bedroom apartment was small, but I’d carved out a kingdom for this baby—my baby. There was no shared custody, no compromises, just science, a turkey baster, and sheer stubbornness. Well, not quite. The National Health Service was costly for private insemination services.
My phone buzzed.
Stepmother From Hell: Chloe’s due in 8 weeks. You couldn’t let her have this one thing to herself?
I exhaled through my nose. Six weeks left until my due date, and this was the energy she brought? Chloe and I hadn’t spoken in years. We didn’t even live in the same county. But sure, my womb was a calculated attack on her precious daughter’s spotlight.
I thumbed out a reply: Tell her I’ll schedule my contractions around her push present.
My real mother had been quiet in a way that made rooms feel safer. She’d died suddenly when I was sixteen—collapsed in the grocery store between the organic kale and the fair-trade coffee. It wasn't something that I would ever forget.
Two years later, Dad married a woman who smiled with all her teeth and kept steak knives in with her compliments. The back stabbing bitch.
You’re so independent, Charlotte. You don’t need us.
By eighteen, I was unpacking boxes in a dorm room, wondering if my spine would bruise from how fast she’d shoved me out.
If she found out about the sperm donor. She’d throw a brunch. “Poor Charlotte. Always the odd one out.”
The stylus jabbed the BUY NOW button. Swiss wheels. Let the baby roll in style. I grinned until the Jaws theme music blasted from my phone.
I answered the call and put her on speakerphone.
“Hi, Sam, how are you?”
“It is Samantha,” she said sharply. “You know I don't like it when you call me Sam.”
“Sorry, I think I’m getting baby brain.”
“Never mind that. This was Chloe’s big moment. I didn't know that you were seeing anybody,” she said, fishing with the big stick that was usually up her ass.
“I don't share every part of my life on social media, Sam—sorry, Samantha,” I said with a grin.
“Who is he? I am sure your father will want to meet him.”
Nope, he didn't care what I did. He was all about Chloe and kissing Sam’s ass. Sam was just dying to know. I was sure she only kept in touch to torment me. Chloe had a grand wedding last year. My Dad footed the bill, but he deserved to be squeezed since he had no backbone.
“Tsk. You're not even married, Charlotte. How unbecoming. My Chloe—”
My fingers tightened around the phone. The baby kicked hard, as if sensing the venom in her voice. I gritted my teeth and took a few deep breaths, rubbing my belly and thanked God that this viperous bitch wasn't related to us by blood. I let her prattle on until she got it all out of her system.
“I know someone your age won't understand, but we are living in the 21st century.”
There was silence.
“I bet he left you. Men always do. That's why you never told anyone about your pregnancy until last week.”
Oh, the bitch was on fire today. A sly dig about my Dad.
“Wrong again. I wanted a healthy, stress-free pregnancy. I should have let you know after I’d given birth.”
I saw an incoming call from the hospital.
“I have to go, Sam. I've got another call. Tell Chloe I said congratulations,” I said before answering the other call.
“It’s Saman—”
What a shame. I grinned, swiping to answer the new call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Charlotte Hutton?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“We need you to come in tomorrow to review your latest blood and urine samples,” she said. “You have an appointment with Dr Vale at the outpatient section in the maternity ward.”
Something was wrong. All my previous appointments were in the prenatal clinic.
“Can you please tell me what’s wrong?”
“Just routine follow-up,” she said, but her tone was too breezy. “Your samples showed minor irregularities. “Dr. Vale wants to be thorough.”
Irregularities.
The word slithered into my ear, cold as a doctor's stethoscope. I shivered and pressed my palm against my belly—had he kicked less today?
“What time?”
“11 AM. Does that work for you?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for calling,” I said, hanging up to text my manager.
◆◆◆
I sat in the waiting room trying to focus on my book, but the words blurred each time a nurse passed by.
I barely slept last night, worrying about the appointment, looking up every condition and trying to figure out which one it could be.
The only comfort was feeling my son inside of me move, reassuring me that he was alive and well.
“Charlotte Hutton,” a man’s voice called, and I almost jumped up to raise my hand and shouted, “present.”
My jaw dropped when I glanced at the doctor.
Why would anyone hire this man to work in a maternity ward? What cruel genius decided to dangle this level of eye candy in front of armies of hormone-saturated women? It was like handing a starving person a gourmet menu, then locking the kitchen.
He was obscenely perfect—tall, dark, and who-approved-this-hazard. Hair combed with ruler-straight precision. A beard trimmed to “I could ruin your life, but I’ll let you live…for now.” A nose so sharp it could’ve sliced through my prenatal anxiety.
Okay, fine, his upper lip was a tad thin—but the man could tie a Windsor knot so flawlessly it made me question all my life choices. His beige shirt clung to muscles I’d need a medical textbook to properly appreciate. My gaze dipped lower—
“Charlotte Hutton,” he repeated with a frown marring his pretty face.
His voice snapped me back to reality, and I held onto the armrest to push myself up.
“Present,” I croaked, raising my hand before wincing at doing what I wasn't supposed to do.
“Lucky bitch,” the woman next to me hissed as I stood up.
“Shut it, you're married,” I muttered, nodding at her glinting wedding ring.
“A woman can look,” she said with a smirk. “Have fun.”
My smile died away when I remembered why I was here.