Chapter Six: The Call

Celyne’s POV

I  stare at my phone in my hand for eleven minutes seeing the name once again after so many years before I dial.

I know because every memories keep flashing through my mind as I count every one of them.

Sitting on the cold bathroom floor of Clara’s apartment, back pressed against the tub, I stare at the number I swore I deleted five years ago.

Still memorized, still ringing in my head,

Some things the mind refuses to let go no matter how desperately the heart begs it to.

The clinic had called twice more since I got home. Then a third time. Then a fourth. I watched each one ring out and die in silence.

But I know what happens if I keep running.

I know Alexander Hale.

He will not stop.

He will send someone to this door. He will make calls. He will pull strings until the entire city of Los Angeles is looking for me, and he will do it all without raising his voice or breaking a sweat.

He always was terrifyingly efficient when he wanted something and knows how to get it done. 

And right now, I am something he wants.

Not me.

The child.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

For a moment, I consider throwing the phone across the room. Pretending this entire situation never happened.

Wishing all these was a dream, But denial has never saved me before.

I press dial before I can stop myself.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then—

“Celyne.”

His voice hits me like cold water.

Low. Controlled. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach turn.

He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t ask who is calling. He simply says my name like he already knew.

Like he had been sitting there waiting.

Maybe he had.

I swallow hard.

“Alexander.”

Silence stretches between us like a fault line.

“You ran,” he says finally.

Not an accusation. Not quite. Just a statement of fact, delivered in that flat, unbothered tone he perfected long before I ever met him.

“I needed space,” I say.

“You needed space,” he repeats slowly, and I can hear the disbelief behind the restraint. “You disappeared from the clinic without speaking to the doctor. You turned your phone off for four hours.”

“I’m aware of what I did.”

“Are you?”

The question lands sharper than I expect.

I close my eyes.

“I’m calling now, aren’t I?”

Another pause.

Then something shifts in his voice. Barely. The way ice shifts before it cracks — so subtle that if you weren’t listening for it, you’d miss it entirely.

“Why did you agree to this?” he asks quietly.

My breath catches.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for my choices.”

“You’re carrying my child.”

“I’m carrying a child for intended parents,” I correct, my voice steadying. “That’s what the contract says.”

“Celyne—”

“I didn’t know it was you.” The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Unpolished. True. “If I had known, I never would have—”

I stop myself.

The bathroom feels smaller suddenly.

“You never would have what?” he asks, and there is something terrifyingly quiet in the way he says it.

I don’t answer.

Because the honest answer is too complicated.

Too dangerous.

Too close to something I refuse to look at directly.

“I want out of the contract,” I say instead.

The silence that follows is different this time.

Heavier.

“That’s not possible,” he says.

“Everything is possible with enough money, Alexander. You taught me that.” “Remember”

“The pregnancy has already begun.” His voice is clipped now. Professional. The voice he uses in boardrooms when he is done being patient. “Terminating the process at this stage carries significant medical risk — to you and to the child.”

“I’m aware of the medical risk.”

“Then you’re aware you can’t simply walk away.”

“Watch me.”

It comes out harder than I intend.

Another silence.

Then he exhales. Slow. Controlled. The sound of a man choosing his words the way a surgeon chooses a blade.

“You signed a contract,” he says quietly. “Legally binding. With penalties for breach.”

“Sue me.”

“Celyne.”

My name in his mouth again. Different this time. Stripped of the cold professionalism.

Almost—

Almost gentle.

“Stop.”

I press my palm flat against the cool tile floor.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because running solves nothing. You know that.”

The words reach somewhere I don’t want them to reach.

Because he is right.

And I hate him for it.

I have been running for five years — from this city, from his memory, from every version of myself that existed when I loved him.

And I ran straight back into the one thing I was trying to escape.

There is no outrunning this.

There never was.

“What do you want?” I ask finally. My voice comes out quieter than I intend. Tired.

Another pause.

Then—

“Come back to the clinic tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”

“For what?”

“To speak with the doctor. To go over the terms properly. To handle this like adults.”

Adults.

I almost laugh.

There is nothing adult about this situation. Nothing rational. Nothing clean.

“And Elara?” I ask.

The name falls between us like a stone into still water.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“She won’t be there,” he says finally.

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

“Fine,” I say.

“Eight o’clock.”

“I heard you the first time.”

Another silence.

This one has a different texture entirely.

Less hostile.

More—

Uncertain.

Which unsettles me far more than his coldness ever could.

Because Alexander Hale is never uncertain.

“Celyne.”

“What?”

A beat.

“…Get some rest.”

The call ends.

I sit on the bathroom floor for a long time after that.

My phone dark in my hand.

The city hums distantly outside Clara’s window — indifferent, alive, endlessly moving.

I press my palm to my stomach.

The child inside me is barely a whisper of life. A cluster of cells. A beginning that has no idea what world it has fallen into.

I’m sorry, I think silently.

You didn’t choose this either.

Neither did I.

But here we are.

---

I don’t sleep well.

I lie in the dark of Clara’s guest room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe outside.

At some point, Clara appears in the doorway.

She doesn’t speak.

She just crosses the room, slides into the bed beside me, and pulls the covers up like we are twelve years old again hiding from Mandy’s sharp voice in the dark.

“You called him,” she says softly. Not a question.

“Yes.”

She is quiet for a moment.

“And?”

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

Another silence.

She reaches over and takes my hand in the darkness.

“I’ll come with you,” she says.

And I squeeze her hand.

Because she is the one constant that has never broken.

The one person who has never left.

I close my eyes and let myself believe that.

For tonight, at least.

I let myself believe it.

Because tomorrow morning at eight o’clock…

I will have to face Alexander Hale again.