Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Henrietta (Blythe)
I don’t trust doctors.
Not because I think they’ll hurt me.
If anything, they’ve always been polite.
Distantly professional, carefully indifferent.
It’s not them I fear—it’s what they represent.
They used to help Winston.
They stitched me up, reset bones, murmured reassurances while carefully avoiding my eyes.
They never asked the real questions.
Never pushed too hard.
Their only concern was making sure Winston’s wife was repaired, ready for the next time he decided she wasn’t good enough.
This doctor . . . I don’t know if I trust her either.
She hates Atlas’s brothers.
I caught bits of murmured conversation outside, low voices that turned to nothing the second they walked in.
There’s a story between the two of them that much is clear.
Maybe she doesn’t hate Atlas because they were something once.
And no, I’m not jealous.
But wouldn’t it be weird to be under the care of someone who used to sleep with my—what even is he to me now?
Are we supposed to be married?
I can’t believe he didn’t tell me my name is now Blythe Timberbridge.
He could’ve at least given me a heads-up, not that I would’ve agreed with it.
Nope. That’s . . . I don’t need to be anyone’s wife.
This situation keeps getting worse by the second.
Messy. Complicated. And maybe I should just leave.
Atlas gave me enough money to buy whatever I need—including clothes.
It’s an advance, he said.
I am not buying shit.
This is my escape fund.
The money I’ll use to disappear.
Maybe to Canada. Would they take me?
Could Winston find me there?
Is it safer to stay here?
But now . . . now I’m supposed to act like I’m Atlas’s wife.
The moment Lydia called me Mrs. Timberbridge, something inside me locked up.
Like a door slammed shut in my head, trapping me inside a life that isn’t mine.
I don’t know if Atlas sensed it or if he was just waiting for me to react, but the way he grabbed my hand—like he thought I would bolt—only made the tension worse.
Now, I’m sitting on an exam table, wrapped in a flimsy gown, about to be examined by a doctor who might already hate me just for being close to him.
And Atlas?
He stands nearby, playing the role of a doting husband well enough.
Close, but not hovering.
Concerned, but not overbearing.
Like he knows I don’t want him here—but refuses to leave anyway.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Moreau,” she finally speaks, glancing at the screen.
Her frown is small, but I catch it.
She lingers too long before looking up.
“Blythe Timberbridge?”
My stomach twists.
She stares at the screen.
Then, at Atlas.
“I had no idea you were married.”
I want to say Me neither, but I don’t.
I just offer a polite, neutral smile.
One that probably says, Well, here I am, just examine me, lady.
Atlas doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah, not many do.” His voice is even.
Casual. “I like to keep my life to myself. Plus, we just got back to town. The last thing I want is for everyone to be watching us.”
Dr. Moreau hesitates, then nods.
“Of course.”
She turns her attention to me, her voice soft but clinical as she runs through the standard questions—last cycle, symptoms, medical history.
I answer what I can.
Lie where I need to.
Then Lydia rolls in the ultrasound machine, the room shifting to something quieter, more expectant.
Dr. Moreau snaps on gloves.
“Since you’re maybe ten weeks pregnant, we’ll be doing an internal ultrasound today.”
I swallow hard.
I don’t like to put my feet on the straps.
“You okay?” Atlas murmurs.
I blink at him.
For a second, just one, his concern feels real.
I force a nod. “Yeah.”
Dr. Moreau dims the lights, and the screen flickers to life.
I brace myself.
Atlas straightens, his entire focus locked onto the screen like it’s the only thing in the room that matters.
His jaw twitches, tension rolling off him in quiet waves.
I don’t breathe as Dr. Moreau preps the wand, her voice calm, detached.
She explains how early scans require an internal ultrasound, how it’ll help get a clearer picture.
My fingers dig into the crinkled paper beneath me.
I almost say no.
Then I remember why I’m here.
I need to know.
The wand is cold.
The pressure, invasive.
It’s clinical, nothing dangerous, but my body doesn’t care about logic.
Still, I tense. My breath hitching, heart hammering against my ribs.
A ghost of a memory slithers in—Winston’s hands pushing me down, his voice, the way he always made it sound like a favor.
Like I should be grateful for him to .
. .
I close my eyes.
I am not there. I am not with him.
Yet I can still feel his hot breath asphyxiating me while he touched me, while he .
. .
Stay present, I insist. You’re safe.
My body still reacts, muscles clenching, a sickness curling in my stomach.
Atlas shifts beside me, his voice low.
Gentle. “Blythe.”
I force my eyes open.
He’s watching me, not the screen.
“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs.
“It’s okay.”
I exhale shakily.
“Relax,” he says, quieter this time.
“You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word shouldn’t mean anything, not coming from him.
Not when I know better than to trust anyone.
But the way he says it—calm, certain, with no expectation, no pressure—makes me want to believe him.
So I inhale, exhale, and try to calm down.
Soon enough, the sound fills the room.
A rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
It’s a strong sound.
That makes my heart stumble.
The doctor glances at the screen, a soft smile in her voice.
“There’s your baby.”
Atlas’s hand tightens around mine, grounding me in a way I don’t expect.
He hasn’t let go since I tensed up earlier.
Now, he gives a small squeeze—it’s a small gesture, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
It feels strange to feel some kind of support when my life is shifting yet again.
The sensation is foreign, and I want to hide.
I definitely do not look at him.
I can’t look at anything but the screen.
And there they are. A tiny, curled-up little shapeless blob, who’s impossibly small.
My baby.
My chest rises, falls.
Too fast. Too shallow.
It doesn’t seem real.
At the center, the heartbeat pulses in a quiet, unwavering rhythm—constant, certain, alive.
The shift inside me is strange, doesn’t feel like peace or safety, more like .
. . acceptance. This is really happening.
I’m going to be a mother.
My stomach twists, bile creeping up my throat because this might be my baby, but it’s also Winston’s.