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My pregnancy was hell. Every day felt like I was drowning, just barely keeping my head above water.

Mula had been gone for months. No calls.

No texts. No word. His people kept shit tight-lipped like he’d never even existed.

And me? I was left here alone, pregnant, and breaking down by the hour.

I didn’t even tell anyone I was pregnant, other than my mother and Solace.

I hid it from all my staff and the workers who slid through for Mula.

I would wear baggy clothes, and it worked because my weight wasn’t coming on like it should have.

I was ashamed, especially not knowing whose baby it was.

I stopped eating; I could barely sleep. My body was giving up on me, and I was too damn tired to fight back.

The stress was eating me alive, tearing at my mind.

Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see Mula—his smile, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Then, the doubt crept in.

What if he was dead?

What if he was never coming back?

Some nights, I sat on the edge of the bed, bottle of pain pills in my hand, staring at the label. It would be so easy. A couple of swallows, and the pain would stop. The emptiness, the waiting, the not knowing—it could all be over.

But then... I’d hear his voice. Not Mula’s.

Coast.

He whispered like he was sitting right next to me, saying, “He’s not dead, Yummi. Don’t let go yet.”

I didn’t know if it was my mind playing tricks on me or if I was slipping into madness like Hurricane had done. Either way, it kept me breathing. Just barely.

I’d place my hand on my belly, feeling the soft, uneven kicks. I was now seven months along, and the baby was holding on stronger than I was. That was the only thing keeping me from swallowing every pill in the damn bottle. I had a child to live for, even if I wasn’t sure who the father was.

Was it Mula’s? Or Hurricane? I didn’t know, and that tore me apart, too.

My body wasn’t right. I was sick all the time. Couldn’t hold food down when I knew I had to feed the baby. The stress had my pressure high, my heart racing, and my mind unraveling. I wasn’t built for this kind of pain or this kind of waiting game.

I’d lie in bed some nights, the TV on low, and just stare at the ceiling. Counting the days. The weeks. Wondering if anybody slipped up and saw my belly and told Mula I was carrying a potential child. Or if he cared when he found out.

When I finally went into labor—early, of course—I didn’t even have the energy to cry.

My body gave up before my mind did. Marques found out I was pregnant first because he was the one who had to take me to the hospital.

It was a late night, and it was just me, Marques at his post, and the pain my baby was causing me.

I had the baby a month early. A little boy. He was small, fragile, and fighting for every breath in the NICU. And still… Mula wasn’t there.

No phone call. No nothing. Marques even tried to contact him, and Tory told me he would pass the word when he talked to Mula again.

All I could do was sit in that hospital room, alone, watching my son fight for a life I wasn’t even sure I could give him.

I wondered if Mula would ever come back. Or if I was just another memory he left behind.