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TWENTY

DAYNA

I lean my head against the cold tile, breathing through my nose as if that’s going to stop me from throwing my guts up.

From the moment I did that pregnancy test, my symptoms seem to have ramped up, like the baby is constantly trying to remind me that it’s in there, no matter how much I try to ignore it.

It’s getting hard to hide my symptoms. I can blame the exhaustion on work, on stress, on late nights, but projectile vomiting can only be attributed to the spirit of Dash’s sperm.

It’s not something I can hide. I also can’t avoid him forever. The migraine excuse will only work for so long.

I know I should just tell him, deal with whatever the fallout might be, because dealing with the revolution my body is going through and weaving all these lies is taking its toll on me.

“Miss Harrington? Are you alright? You’ve been in here for a while now and we’re due for a client call in fifteen minutes?”

I close my eyes, hoping it will make my boss piss off. I could honestly give two fucks about a client call.

“Uh-huh, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She mutters something under her breath, and I wait until I hear the door before I get off the toilet floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so drained in my entire life.

I place a hand over my stomach, still flat, still causing chaos.

“What are you doing to me?” I ask, my voice soft.

I go back to my desk, ignoring the way my boss is shooting daggers at me. Ignoring the rolling feeling in my stomach.

I’ve barely settled into my seat when she steps up to my desk.

“Miss Harrington, are you planning on spending all of this week in the ladies’ room?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we are on the brink of a deadline that could have massive repercussions for our department. I need you doing your best work.”

I swallow the bile trying to rise up my throat. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been feeling well this week and I’m trying to push through so I don’t let the team down.”

I choke on those words. I couldn’t give two fucks about the team, but I also need this job, now more than ever.

She stares at me like I might be contagious.

“I expect those reports before noon.”

My smile might as well be laced with arsenic.

As soon as she walks away my stomach drops, for an entirely different reason. I haven’t even started that report.

I completely spaced.

Shit.

I load up the spreadsheet I need, my eyes blurring as I try to read the information I need. It’s going to be a long day.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, all I want to do is go home and sleep, but I have to get ready to go to my other job. I get changed in the office bathroom I’ve spent half the day visiting, my uniform for the coffee shop hidden under Dash’s hoodie.

I check my phone and see two messages from him.

Dash:

You feeling better?

Dash:

You need anything?

Fuck. I lean my head against the cubicle wall. I hate lying to him. Hate that I’m too fucking scared to tell him the truth—that we made a baby together.

Me:

Still got a migraine. Just going to crash after work. Hope you’re okay.

Hope you’re okay? Fucking kill me now.

My shift is only three hours, but it feels longer than my entire work week. By the time I leave, I’m lightheaded and I throw up in a bush on the way home.

All I want to do is crawl into bed and die, but when I step out of the stairwell, my footsteps falter.

Dash is leaning against the wall outside my flat, waiting.

Shit. I’m not strong enough to hide this. Not tonight.

I force my smile and walk towards him.

He takes one look at me, and his brows pinch together in concern.

I hold up a hand before he can say anything. I can’t pretend I don’t look like death, so I do the only thing I can. I own it. “I’m aware I look like a reanimated corpse. Please don’t judge. Someone at work has a stomach bug, and I’m pretty sure I’ve picked it up.”

Another lie, and I tell it so easily it fills me with shame. Especially when he looks at me with such softness.

His hand instantly slides around the back of my neck, and fuck, I want to lean into his touch, get lost in him. I want to tell him the real reason I feel so awful. I want to tell him about the baby we made.

It sits on the tip of my tongue to spit it out, but I clamp it behind my teeth. I’m too tired right now to deal with the fallout of whatever comes when I spill this secret to him.

“Shit, babe, you should have called me.”

Him being sweet makes it worse, but I lean into his touch, needing him more than ever. “I didn’t want to infect you.”

“I don’t care if I get sick. You need me.” Again, that ugly guilt slithers through me. “First the migraine, now this. Shit week, huh?”

“The worst,” I say.

He takes my keys from me, unlocking the door and wraps his arm around my waist to help me inside. I try not to flinch when his hand brushes over the edge of my stomach. There’s nothing to see, nothing to feel yet, but it feels like a beacon nestled between my hips.

“You eaten today?” he asks.

“Everything I tried came back up.” Not a lie. I’m barely keeping anything inside me.

He helps me onto the couch with such reverence tears pricked my eyes. Don’t fucking cry.

“Your workplace didn’t send you home when you’re this sick?”

“We have a big project due.”

I tuck my feet under me, leaning my head back against the cushions as he wraps a blanket around me, and again, my throat is choked with tears. Would he be looking after me like this if he knew I’m pregnant?

Dash frowns at me and that makes me want to cry more. His thumb swipes over my cheek, capturing a tear that I couldn’t hold back.

“I’m sorry,” I sniff. “I always cry when I’m sick.”

And filled with pregnancy hormones.

“You don’t have to apologise for anything. Get comfortable. I’ll make something for you to eat, something light.” I open my mouth to protest that I really cannot eat anything, but he shakes his head. “You need to put something in your stomach. You can’t survive on air, Dayna.”

And I’m not just eating for one.

Two days later, I’m unravelling for a completely different reason. I’m sitting in Ivy’s kitchen, watching her with Seren, but it’s her sister that my gaze keeps sliding to. Maylie arrived ten minutes ago and has been talking nonstop since.

I love May. She’s a riot, but she’s the last person I want to see right now. She’s glowing, her bump prominent beneath her dress, like it’s mocking me,

Maylie, with an overbearing husband who watches her like she’s glass.

It feels like the universe is trying to dismantle what’s left of my sanity. Because now all I can think about is how it’ll feel to have my baby grow inside me, Dash’s hand on my belly. A baby I’m not sure I can keep if Dash doesn’t want it.

Suddenly, the room feels too small, Maylie’s rambling too much, and the hurt in my chest is too painful.

I want my baby, but that might not be my choice.

The following morning, I wake to a message from Dash—his usual check-in when he doesn’t stay over. It’s sweet, more than I deserve.

I have a message from Katie, too, asking if I’ve told him yet.

Shame burns through me, and I don’t reply. I can’t. I know I should have. He has a right to know, but I just need time to shore up my defences in case he doesn’t want this.

In case he doesn’t want me.

I have an appointment this morning, one to discuss my options.

And I hate how that sounds.

Options .

Like we’re discussing changing the wallpaper in the sitting room.

My stomach churns the entire time I’m sitting in the waiting room. The surgery is small. It smells like sickness and fear.

I tap my foot, waiting for my name to appear on the monitor, my hand on my stomach. My nerves are chewed to pieces and my nausea is relentless.

When my name appears, I head down the corridor to the room and when I push inside, I’m greeted by an older woman. She gives me that stern look doctors usually do, the one that says they know you’ve been treating your body like trash and now you expect them to fix it.

I sit at the side of the desk, feeling like I’m back in school and about to get told off.

“What can I do for you today Miss Harrington?” she asks.

“I’m pregnant.”

She looks at me over the top of her glasses, and I shrink under the scrutiny.

“You’ve done an at home test?”

“A hundred,” I joke. I haven’t. I’ve done one, but the doctor needs to lighten up.

She pulls her glasses off, placing them on the desk. “I’m not entirely sure why you’re here, Miss Harrington. You will need to speak to reception to get a referral to maternity services, but you won’t be seen until you’re twelve weeks.”

And suddenly, I really wish I was having this conversation with someone else, because I can already tell she’s judging me and I haven’t even said anything. “Oh.”

She stares at me a beat. “Are you planning on terminating the pregnancy?”

I blink, my hand automatically pressing against my belly. “I don’t know.”

It burns my throat to admit that, even if she is a doctor, even if she’s probably heard much worse than my pathetic confession.

Her eyes soften slightly. “There are options. Do you want me to tell you about adoption or abortion services?”

I flinch. “Please.”

She prints out information relating to both, handing it to me.

I fold the papers, stuffing them in my pocket.

I feel worse than I did before I walked in here.

I’m not sure what I expected. Did I think she was going to coach me through my poor life decisions?

Give me the answer to the never ending conundrum of what to do when you’re pregnant with an overbearing biker’s baby?

When I leave the clinic, I just stand there, unable to make my legs move. I should head back to work, make up the time I lost coming here, but I need a moment to breathe.

There’s a small park across the street from the clinic. I walk over and sink on to a lonely bench.

It feels weird that the world is still turning around me while my life turns to shit.

I watch a little kid running around the grass, shrieking as a man chases him. He catches the boy, lifting him and kissing his belly.

My chest aches seeing that.

I pull out the printout the doctor gave me. My throat burns with every word I read, every decision I have to make. Every step I need to take that will decide the rest of my life.

I splay my hand over my stomach, trying to imagine every scenario playing out.

I keep the baby and Dash is happy.

I keep the baby, Dash runs, and I drown in debt, selling soul and sanity to survive.

I keep the baby and fall on the mercy of my mother, praying she hasn’t burned through her inheritance and can help me with finances.

I have the baby and put it up for adoption.

Or…

There is no baby.

And everything goes back to how it was.

Except it won’t.

There will always be that baby-shaped what-if seared into my bones.

I lower my head between my knees as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

I want my baby.

I want it so much it burns, but I can’t afford to do it alone.

I need to know whether he’s going to be involved or whether the decision to keep my baby is going to be taken out of my hands.

No. No . Even if he’s not on board, I have to find a way.

I head back to work, my head full.

Either way, there is one thing I know I need to do. I have to tell Dash that I’m pregnant and I need to do it soon.

Because whatever happens it’s not just me to think about and I have to make plans.