Page 79 of Omega's Faith

"Saskia, what did you do?"

"I'm sorry, Alex." She steps outside, not bothering to hide her disheveled appearance.

"You set this up."

"I'm sorry," she says again, and maybe she even means it. "I need the story. You understand, right? It's all about the narrative."

"Get out," I say quietly.

She leaves without another word.

I'm packed in five minutes. Fuck the seven-day minimum. Fuck the finding myself. Fuck all of it.

The receptionist tries to stop me. "Mr. Colborne, you're booked through Sunday—"

"I've paid the full week. Just give me my devices."

She unlocks the safe, hands me my phone and laptop.

"I hope you found what you were looking for," she says.

I sit on a bench outside, waiting for the valet to return my car and watch the morning mist burn off the mountains while I wait for my phone to power on. It explodes with notifications.

I only have eyes for the messages from one person.

Pregnant.

Jonah is pregnant.

With my child.

Four days. This message has been sitting for four days while I've been doing sun salutations and drinking green juice and letting Saskia cry on my shoulder.

The car pulls up and the valet hands over my keys.

I stare at the message reading it again. So formal. So careful."I don't expect anything from you."

It’s like he's already written me off. He's already accepted he's doing this alone.

But I get in the car anyway, phone clutched in my hand, that one word echoing in my head with every heartbeat.

Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

20. Jonah

The new phone sits on my nightstand. I’ve set it up so that I get notifications on the screen, each delivered with a loud chime. I’ll know the moment anything arrives, but I can’t help picking it up and checking it over and over.

Each time, the screen shows the same thing: my message to Alex, delivered four days ago is still unread or perhaps read and ignored which is worse.

I'm pregnant. I don't expect anything from you. Thought you should know. Jonah.

Maybe I was too blunt. Maybe I should have called Diana first, let her break the news gently. Maybe I should have—

A wave of nausea cuts through my spiraling thoughts, sending me stumbling toward the bathroom where I barely make it in time.

I’m left gasping and shaking over the toilet. I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I don't look pregnant. I look exhausted, maybe a little green around the edges, but not like someone carrying Alexander Colborne's child. Another wave of queasiness shudders through me, though this time I think it's more anxiety than morning sickness.