Chapter 17 Amara
AMARA
I wake up feeling disoriented. The bed is too soft, too expensive, too unfamiliar. The room is too big, too clean, too new. And everything smells like Ransome.
Where am I?
Suddenly, all the memories come crashing back.
I was at work. I walked into the parking lot. I saw him, blinked, blacked out, blinked again and was in the hospital. The rest was a blur and the next thing I knew I was here. In his estate, which felt too good to be true.
As it turns out, it was.
Ransome didn’t stay the night. He kissed me, confided in me, looked at me the way he used to, the way I always dreamed he would, the way I never imagined possible less than a year ago. And then… he left. He left without reason, saying hardly anything at all.
And without making love to me.
Crazily enough, that last part is the thing that disappoints me the most. They say libido spikes when you’re in your third trimester.
Believe me when I say, it’s no joke. The times I have thought about that man while lying in bed, having to bite the pillow so no one in my little house could hear me coming…
well. Let’s just say I had to wash my sheets multiple times a week.
I blamed it on pregnancy induced hot flashes, which are also a thing, so I wasn’t really lying.
If I hadn’t been so tired last night, I would have soaked the sheets in his bed too.
But after he left, I just crawled under the covers, pouted for a while, questioning if I made a huge mistake coming here, and then drifted off into a deep, hard sleep.
Possibly the best sleep I’ve had since I got pregnant. Damn his pillowtop mattress.
I have no motivation to get out of bed. It’s not like I have to be at work.
Or to make breakfast for my siblings before they start their days.
I miss it, if I am being honest. Even if it wasn’t luxurious.
It was ours. I miss it enough that my eyes sting with tears and I swear to God I can actually smell food.
That’s when it hits me: I do smell food.
I hop out of bed and make my way to the kitchen only to find a bag of food sitting on the table.
My name is on it, so I tear it open, suddenly absolutely starved.
Inside, I find a veggie frittata, a cup of fruit and even a cinnamon roll, still hot and gooey from wherever it came from. Obviously, I dig into that first.
There is also coffee ready. I take a sip and lay out all my treats on the table unable to contain myself.
After about three minutes of pure indulgence, I see the other packages by the door.
It’s a mountain of pastel-colored gift bags that definitely weren’t there before.
I pop the rest of the cinnamon roll into my mouth and dust my hands off before making my way over to inspect.
“Beautiful Bump Boutique?” I read the label on the bags. “The fuck?”
I open the bags, which turn out to be full of maternity clothes. Cute maternity clothes. Cute maternity clothes in my size.
“No way.” I grin as I pull out item after item, from scrunchy-sided shirts to maternity leggings to soft paneled jeans and even a pajama set.
It’s hard to be mad at a man when he’s buying you bougie breakfast and new clothes. There’s also a small bag with some extra goodies in it. Bath bombs, ginger pops for nausea, and belly butter lotion.
I grab all the bags and head to the bedroom. I set the clothes out on the bed, then pad over to the bathroom to run the water in the giant tub that I have been shamelessly eying since I got here.
I toss a bath bomb into the water and watch as it turns pink with bubbles and the air fills with the scent of roses and berries. Lovely. Just lovely.
After that, I undress and slip in. The water is warm enough to melt my muscles, but not so warm that it’s not safe for the little man. I relax for a while, still sipping on my caramel coffee in peace. Then I lather my hair with expensive shampoo and apply a deep conditioning mask.
After my bath, I put the belly butter lotion pretty much everywhere, because it smells like almonds and I love it. Plus, it makes my skin baby-soft.
Then I slip into a pair of the leggings which truly do fit my preggo body the right way, both accommodating and flattering.
There were also some maternity bras in there—no underwire!
Hallelujah!—and I tug one of those bad boys on, nearly bursting into tears at the lack of pain I feel.
Because fuck normal bras when your tits are doubling in size.
I finish it off with a hoodie that also covers my belly and is made of the world’s softest cotton before heading back into the living room to eat the rest of my fruit cup.
Just as I pop a strawberry into my mouth, there is a knock at the door. I’m not sure who that could be, but honestly, I am in so much bliss, I don’t really care.
I pull the door open with one hand, the other hand still holding the cup of fruit, the fork hanging out of my mouth.
When I see who is standing there, my mouth pops open and the fork falls out, hitting the floor with a clank.
“Hi,” the woman says with a tight smile. Her eyes lock on my face before trailing down my body, stopping at my belly and staying there.
The smile fades a little.
“… Jenica?”
I reach for the fork on the floor as my mouth hangs open. I’m not gonna lie: bending over while a bazillion months pregnant is not as easy as they make it look in the movies.
Jenica is gracious enough not to laugh at me. “You remember me,” she says instead.
“Of course I do.” How could I forget the woman Ransome was supposed to marry? “Would you… like to come in?” I ask, though it feels weird. This isn’t really my house.
“Sure,” she says as she steps inside, her eyes flashing to my belly as she passes.
I close the door and toss my cup in the trash, my appetite suddenly gone.
“I’m surprised you remember me,” she says, looking around uncomfortably with her hands clasped together. It’s like she knows she doesn’t belong here. Like she’s afraid of even the air in the room touching her.
“Really?” I ask with a smile. “I don’t think I could ever forget Jenica Chadovich.”
With that, her eyes dart over to mine and she holds up her left hand in a spirit fingers motion. “Oh. It’s Jenica Rozanov now.”