Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Henrietta (Blythe)
Just thinking about how the kid was conceived—of who the father is .
. . it cracks something open inside me.
Splinters through my ribs, crawls up my throat, squeezes until my vision blurs.
The clinic walls are closing in.
The air feels too thick, pressing against my skin, making it impossible to pull in a full breath.
My heartbeat thrums wildly, loud enough to drown out everything else.
Or maybe that’s not my heart—it’s the sound of the monitor, the rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh looping through my head like an alarm I can’t turn off.
My baby.
Mine, but also Winston’s child.
The words don’t settle right.
They don’t belong to me alone.
They belong to someone else, too.
And yet, I’m the one laying here, trapped under the enormity of it.
I should feel something—joy, relief, hope.
Anything but this crushing sense of finality.
It’s no longer a distant problem I can shove to the back of my mind, something I can file under deal with later.
Yes, I knew I would have a baby, that the cost was going to be stratospheric, but actually acknowledging what will happen the baby is born .
. . my mind hadn’t caught up with that.
But it’s happening. It’s real.
And I have no idea if I can do this.
If I can love a child, who will forever remind me of the worst part of my life.
Simone’s voice is just noise in the background, muffled and distant.
Instructions about follow-ups, prenatal vitamins, nausea remedies.
Atlas is the one responding, like a doting husband whose concern about my wellbeing.
I can’t even register what he’s saying.
My skin prickles, too tight, too hot.
My pulse skitters wildly, a runaway thing I can’t control.
I need to get out.
I push off the exam table too fast. The floor shifts, the walls tilt—like the whole room is moving without me.
My stomach lurches in protest.
Atlas moves before I can even register what’s happening, his hands catching my arms, warm and solid, like he knew I’d stumble before I did.
“Whoa, easy.” His voice is low, threaded with something softer.
“You okay, babe?”
I should pull away, should tell him I don’t need this, don’t want this—but his touch isn’t suffocating this time.
It’s . . . careful. His grip firm enough to hold me upright, but not caging.
Like he’s reminding me, we’re together in this, even when I keep fighting it.
I blink up at him, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
His brows draw together, concern etching into the lines of his face, but there’s something else in his expression, too—something almost teasing.
“You’re gonna make me carry you out of here, aren’t you?”
A breath escapes me, half a scoff, half a laugh, wobbly at the edges.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words barely more than a whisper.
My voice doesn’t hold, the edges too frayed, stretched too thin.
“Just . . . a little nauseous.”
His hands stay on me a beat longer than they need to, his thumb grazing my wrist, a touch so fleeting it could’ve been accidental.
But what if it wasn’t .
. . and why did I like it?
Atlas exhales, eyes scanning my face like he’s not convinced, like he’s memorizing the cracks.
But he doesn’t push.
Instead, he smirks, an exasperated kind of affection shaping his mouth.
“Alright, but if you pass out, I’m catching you. And I will make a big deal out of it.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my lips betrays me, tugging up just the slightest bit.
And I hate how much I need this—this tiny, ridiculous moment where everything feels normal.
Even when it’s all fake.
Simone watches me carefully before schooling her expression back into something neutral.
She keeps her tone light, professional, as she reminds Atlas about their agreement.
There’s nothing left to discuss—nothing I can bear to stand in this room and listen to.
I turn away, grabbing my clothes with jerky movements, barely aware of the fabric sliding over my skin.
I don’t care that I’m almost naked in front of him.
I just need to be done.
The hoodie catches as I yank it over my head, my fingers fumbling as I shove them through the sleeves.
My sneakers feel too tight when I shove my feet inside, and I rush through tying the laces, my fingers clumsy, shaking.
I straighten, but I don’t look at Atlas.
I can’t.
The moment we step outside, the air hits me like a slap, sharp and biting.
The cold should clear my head, should shock me back into my body, but it doesn’t.
“Why is it so cold here?” I complain.
He shrugs. “The weather is being very New Englandy,” he states, as if that makes sense.
It doesn’t, but I don’t say anything.
I need more space.
I move fast, too fast, heading straight for Atlas’s truck, gripping the handle and yanking the door open before he can catch up.
The leather seat is freezing when I slide in, and I keep my hands in my lap, clenching them into fists to stop the shaking.
Atlas doesn’t start the truck right away.
He sits behind the wheel, watching me, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, his jaw tight.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on in your head, or do I have to guess?”
I stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Nothing’s going on,” I lie.
“I just want to go . . .” I want to say home, but I don’t have one.
It’s just some apartment this man so graciously is giving me because, apparently, he decided to save me.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I mumble.
“It’s just easier if you just let me get my things and drive me to a bus station. Maybe I can go to Canada.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t turn the key in the ignition.
“You don’t have a home,” he says evenly.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
I flinch.
His words hit too close, cut too deep.
My fingers tighten around the sleeves of my hoodie, knuckles turning white.
He’s right. I don’t have a home.
I could find places to hide, places to pass through, places where I could pretend are safe until I have to run again.
But I don’t say that.
Instead, I latch onto the only thing I can control.
“I can handle myself.”
Atlas exhales through his nose.
“That right?” His voice is rough.
“Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you’re about to pass out.”
I bristle.
“I’m fine.”
“Fuck, I’m getting tired of this whole ‘I’m fine,’” Atlas snaps, his voice cutting through the thick silence between us.
His knuckles go white around the steering wheel.
“You’re not fine. You’re running from a monster. You’re pregnant and alone. You need a family.” His voice dips, rough and certain.
“I can’t give you that. But I can give you shelter.”
A bitter laugh catches in my throat.
“Well, when I leave, you’ll get to rest.”
His hands flex on the wheel.
“Is that what you want?”
I whip my head toward him, my pulse surging, something desperate clawing its way up my chest. “What do you want me to say, Atlas?” My voice shakes, but I can’t stop.
“That I’m scared? That I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now? That I still have no fucking clue how I’m going to get out of this alive?” The words tear out of me, raw and broken.
“That I don’t know if I can love his child? A child who was conceived . . .” My throat tightens, and I look away, staring out into the horizon.
“Believe me when I tell you Winston was never gentle. He never asked permission. He just took because he thought I belonged to him.”
Atlas stills.
Then his entire body coils, something dark snapping in his expression.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice low and lethal.
“I’m going to kill him.”
A humorless laugh slips past my lips.
“He has a bodyguard who’d die for him. Good luck with that.” I shrug like it’s nothing like it doesn’t scrape at something raw inside me.
“That’s not the point. The point is . . . this moment made everything real, and now—” My breath shudders.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Atlas shifts in his seat, turning toward me, eyes locked onto mine.
“What do you want to do?” His voice isn’t demanding.
It isn’t harsh. It’s something else—something that makes my chest ache in a way I can’t afford.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Talk to me, Blythe.”
I whip my head toward him again, anger flaring, burning at the edges of everything.
“What do you want me to say, Atlas? That I’m too fucking scared? That I don’t know how to fix this? That I still have no clue how to escape? Would that make you feel better?” My voice cracks, my breath coming fast, too fast. “I’m trapped. I’m fucking trapped and . . . tired. I probably escaped because I was so close to begging him to kill me, to just let me die because I couldn’t take it anymore.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, it’s like everything caves in.
Atlas grips the wheel so hard I hear the leather groan beneath his fingers.
His jaw locks, his entire body wound so tight it looks like it hurts.
Then, with measured precision, he unbuckles his seatbelt, shifts toward me, and does something I don’t expect.
He softens.
Not in a way that makes him fragile.
Not in a way that erases the storm in his eyes.
But in a way that makes it clear—he’s not my enemy.
“You’re not trapped,” he says, voice lower now, rougher.
“Not with me.”
I swallow hard, looking away.
“You don’t understand?—”
“I understand more than you think.” His voice dips, something raw bleeding into his words.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel powerless? To grow up in a house where survival comes first?”
I look at him then.
Really look. And for the first time, I see it.
The way his hands curl into fists.
The tension in his shoulders that never fully disappears.
The way his past sits just beneath his skin, waiting to surface.
This isn’t just about me.
Atlas knows what it’s like to be powerless.
He’s lived it.
He leans in just enough that I can feel his warmth in the cold air between us.
“But here’s the thing, Blythe—you’re not powerless. You left. You got out. That’s more than a lot of people can say.” His voice hardens.
“You’re not weak. So stop acting like it.”
The words hit like a slap, but not in a cruel way.
In a way that forces the panic back, makes it lose its grip on my throat.
I drag in a shaky breath, pressing my hands against my stomach.
The fabric of my hoodie bunches under my fingers, grounding me in something real.
Something alive.
Mine.
And now, someone else’s.
Atlas watches me, waiting.
He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push.
Just waits.
Then, without another word, he starts the car.
“Buckle up,” he mutters, flicking the headlights back on.
“We’ve got time for a short stop before I head to the shop.”
I fumble for my seatbelt, not even sure why I listen.
Maybe because I don’t have it in me to fight anymore.
Or maybe—just maybe—because Atlas is the first person who’s made me believe I don’t have to do this alone.
Not today.
Not yet.