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And now this.
Pregnant.
Knocked up.
With Damien Zaitsev’s baby.
Damien. God, just thinking his name hurts now. After he dropped me at the apartment, things went from bad to worse. Missing my period felt more like a footnote rather than a red flag until Melanie dragged me here.
Six weeks.
Just a few weeks ago, I was still with Damien, waking up in his bed, feeling safe, stupidly happy, clueless about what was coming.
Now, I’m here.
Pregnant. Alone. In a cold exam room, wearing a paper gown, holding my roommate’s hand, because the man who put this baby inside me is too dangerous to even contact.
What am I supposed to do now?
“Sash?” Melanie nudges me softly. “You okay?”
I snap back into myself, forcing a nod. “Fine. Totally fine.”
But I’m not fine.
I’m terrified.
Ten minutes later, I’m lying down on a crinkly paper sheet in a darkened room, my jeans unbuttoned, belly exposed, and heart threatening to beat its way through my ribs.
The machine next to me whirs to life, and the ultrasound technician squeezes a generous amount of cold gel onto my stomach. I flinch. Melanie whispers “yikes” beside me. I want to laugh and throw up at the same time.
“Okay,” the tech says, moving the wand over my skin with calm precision. “Let’s take a look.”
The screen flickers. Blurry black and white static, little flashes of shadow and light. I have no idea what I’m looking at.
Then the technician pauses. Points.
“There.”
I squint. “That blob?”
She laughs gently. “That’s your baby.”
It’s small. So small it barely looks like anything, just a little curve of grey against the dark. But it’s there. Real.
And then she turns the volume up.
I hear it. A fast, strong, impossiblytinyheartbeat.
I cover my mouth with one hand, my throat locking tight. I don’t know when the tears start falling. One second I’m squinting at the screen and the next I’m crying like I’ve been holding it in for years.
Melanie squeezes my arm, her voice soft. “Oh, Sash…”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
I’m still scared. Still confused. Still completely overwhelmed.
But for a moment—just a small, blurry moment on a screen—I feel something else.