Page 25 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

“Not dying,” I say, then laugh, because it’s funny if you look at it from the right angle. “Just…multiplying.”

She processes this, then exhales. “Are you pregnant? Holy shit. Are you actually pregnant?”

I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. “Yeah. Surprise. And not just one. Three.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “Is that…is that possible? I didn’t think you even had sex. Or time.”

I shake my head, try to scatter the images. “It happened,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”

Cassie’s voice goes soft, the way it always does when the world is falling apart. “What are you going to do?”

I stare at the sink. “I have no idea. I can’t tell anyone. Not the team, not Ryland, not my mom. Not even them.”

Another pause. “You mean the…the possible fathers?”

I make a noise, something between a laugh and a sob. “God. I don’t even know who. It’s a statistical nightmare.”

Cassie’s tone sharpens, her inner lawyer surfacing. “Well, it’s not like they’ll care. Men never do.”

I bite my tongue, because I know that’s not true. If anything, the three of them are biologically incapable of not caring. That’s the whole problem.

Cassie fills the silence with a string of expletives. “You can’t just ghost them, Sage. Or are you planning to move to Alaska and start over with a new name? Because, honestly, that would be badass.”

I scan the apartment: the diplomas framed above the TV, the closet arranged by color and sleeve length, the whiteboard calendar mapped out through next April, every square filled with initials and notes.

My life is too organized to abandon, but the urge is real.

“It’s tempting,” I say. “I could just go. Start somewhere nobody knows me.”

“Except you’d hate it. You’d last a month, then call me crying because there’s no decent kombucha and the gyms all smell like beef jerky.”

She’s right. She always is. I smile in spite of myself. “I don’t even like kombucha.”

“Shut up, you love it. Remember that time you got so drunk you made your own in the bathtub?”

I cringe. “I thought it was sterile.”

“You thought you were sterile,” she counters, and I can hear her grinning. “Guess you were wrong.”

I let the laughter fade, then take a breath. “What would you do?”

Cassie doesn’t hesitate. “Tell them. You can’t do this by yourself.”

I look down at my hands and flex my fingers. “I’ve always done things by myself.”

“Just saying you don’t need to do it all alone now.” Her reply is cloaked in gentleness. “My home is open, just reminding you.”

A lump forms in my throat as I acknowledge her, and I then hang up.

I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, then strip down and stand in front of the mirror.

I turn sideways, studying the slight bulge in my stomach that I’d stupidly chalked up to a bad diet of too many protein bars.

The skin is warm. I count the weeks until this secret becomes impossible to hide.

Tears fall down my eyes, part panic, part disbelief, part… is it joy? Do I dare call it joy?

When the panic recedes, it leaves a gap just wide enough for habit to wedge itself in. I pad through the apartment to my desk. I don’t bother with the lamp. The light from my laptop screen is enough to punch a hole through the dark, a square of blue on my face, bright as a police interrogation.

I open a new document, defaulting to Excel out of muscle memory.

I title it Things I Can Still Control . The letters are oversized, bolded, as if sheer font weight could anchor me to the world.

My hands hover over the keyboard, waiting for the rest of my brain to catch up.

I type the first entry: 1. The timing. Don’t tell anyone.

For emphasis, I make it red and highlight the cell in yellow.

I add more lines. 2. Nutrition. Eat real food.

No more skipping meals. 3. Track symptoms. Document everything.

4. Financial projections. 5. Medical leave.

Each one gets its own tab, each tab populated with drop-downs and color-coding and conditional formatting.

It’s a comfort, more effective than any therapy I’ve tried.

In the span of twenty minutes, I’ve built a decision tree so dense it could choke a lesser woman.

The nutrition tab is first. I copy and paste a meal plan from a prenatal site, then delete half of it because it’s all kale and lentils and nobody needs that much chia in one lifetime.

I replace Snack with Second Breakfast . I add a column for Acceptable Vomit Risk , grading each item on a scale from one to five.

Eggs get a four. Oat milk is a tentative two.

Cheese is a hard five—at least until the smell turns on me.

Next is the symptom log. I build a table, date-stamped, with columns for Time , Nausea (Y/N) , Cramps , Other (specify) . I debate adding a row for Existential Dread , but decide that’s too subjective for real tracking.

On the finance tab, I run the numbers. I have one savings account, three credit cards (two near maxed), and an emergency fund that might cover one week of unpaid leave.

I make a chart for Projected Baby Expenses , inputting best guesses for diapers , formula , medical co-pays , and miscellaneous horror .

For triplets. I watch the negative balance climb, a mountain range of debt stretching into infinity.

The medical leave tab is trickier. I pull up the HR portal, scan the employee handbook for anything about maternity or disability .

The policy is brutal: twelve weeks unpaid, provided you survive the paperwork gauntlet.

I start a to-do list for doctor’s note , notify supervisor , and do not under any circumstances tell Talia .

I copy the contact info for my PCP and paste it to the top of the sheet.

On a whim, I add one last tab: How Long Can I Hide It. The column headers are Weeks Pregnant , Expected Symptoms , Clothing Options , and Excuses for Weight Gain . For now, the clothing row is all baggy scrubs and oversized sweatshirts . I set a reminder at week fifteen to reassess .

Each new tab is a little anchor, a guarantee against the future unspooling into chaos. My breathing slows. I feel the thump of my pulse in my wrist, steady now, almost normal. The spreadsheet glows in the dark, a secret map only I can read.

I scroll back to the first page, add a new bullet under Things I Can Still Control . It says, 6. The Story. Own it, or someone else will.

I close the laptop, the screen fading to black.

The room is silent, the world reset to its default state of too much night and not enough time.

I sit with my hands in my lap, then one migrates, almost unconsciously, to rest on my belly.

The city outside is waking up, the first hints of morning leaking through the blinds.

I have weeks, maybe less, before the secret gets out. But for now, it’s mine.