3. Some Possible Butterfly Effect

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Joanne jolted awake, looking around. 

She was in her bedroom. She looked down at her belly. No visible bump yet. 

She picked up her phone and checked the date. 

November fourteenth. The day after Reagan’s birthday. 

“This is actually happening.” She breathed out, looking at her reflection in her vanity mirror. She gulped, “I am alive. And I am in the past, and my baby is alive in my belly.” 

She shuddered as she breathed out. 

She had to make sure. 

If she was actually back in time, then it was only obvious that she was two months pregnant. 

But since logic had nothing to do with what was going on here, it was only right if she confirmed if her kiddo was inside her. 

Joanne turned on her heels to get ready for the day. She moved too fast and her world spun, whatever little food she had in her stomach coming right back up. 

She rushed to the en suite, falling over the toilet seat and unloading the gross contents of her stomach into the bowl. 

She slumped to the floor with no energy left in her, feeling as though all her stamina was drained along with turbid contents of her gut. 

She remembered this moment too. But… back then, it was slightly different. 

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Reagan had not come home all night. 

The steak and the cake stayed untouched on the dining table.

Joanne bit back tears as she walked to the kitchen with her wasted efforts, dumping them in the garbage disposal. 

She looked for her phone. It was nowhere. She reached her bedroom in search of it.

Hearing it ping endlessly with messages, she picked it up to see dozens of texts and missed calls from her father, his PA and many other cruel people in her life. The one she opened was the texts from her only and true friend, Elliot. 

It was a link and a question: Where are you? 

She opened the link. 

It was a paparazzi article.

Hollywood's Dream Girl sighted with her ex-flame celebrating his birthday. Is this a new beginning? [Pictures from the birthday bash INSIDE]

Something churned inside her stomach and before she knew it, she was throwing up into the toilet bowl.

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Joanne took deep breaths and cautiously got up to her feet, flushing the toilet before rinsing her mouth and brushing her teeth.

She got back to the bedroom and checked her phone again. 

There had been a dozen missed calls and text messages.

But there were only two texts from her father, and some random unrelated meme from Elliot. 

The remaining seventeen missed calls and eight unread messages were from Reagan. 

Her eyebrows scrunched up as she looked up paparazzi articles about the rekindling of his love story. 

But there was none except for a generic article mentioning his birthday titled, “HOTEL GIANT REAGAN KNIGHT TURNS THIRTY-TWO. Here are the Top 32 famous quotes by the Billionaire.”

“This can't be right.” She reluctantly tapped open the texts he had sent. 

REAGAN: Where are you?

REAGAN: Why are you not answering your phone?

REAGAN: This is so immature.

REAGAN: For God's sake, open the fucking door! 

REAGAN: Answer the damn phone! I can hear it ring! 

REAGAN: Are you even in there?

REAGAN: ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

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REAGAN: I know you are up. Stop being so difficult, Joanne.

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The last text had been sent three minutes ago. 

But she was stuck on something else. 

Joanne. 

He had never used her first name before.

It had always been Joanne Ramsay or Ms. Ramsay. Wife or Mrs. Knight when he was mocking her or in the public eye.

Never ever Joanne. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Joanne, open the door. Enough with this bullshit.”

There it was, again. 

Joanne.

Had her headbutt somehow rewired his brain? 

Joanne squared her shoulders. She couldn't hide away here forever. If she wanted to save herself and her kid, she needed to face everything head-on and get away from this toxic marriage and her all other toxic relations.

She opened the door to find Reagan with his fist up, paused midway to knocking on the door again.

His nose was bandaged, the edges of the swelling peaking out. It brought some sort of peace to her soul.

“What do you want?” She asked the frozen man.

He didn't respond for a moment but then pointed at his nose. “Do you see this?” 

“I am not blind.” She pushed him aside and walked to the kitchen. 

He followed, stomping his feet. “Not an apology. Not even a question if I am alright. What? Not playing the perfect wife anymore?” 

She spun on her heels to raise a brow at him, “Yeah. You must be very happy right? I am finally listening to you.” 

Reagan Knight did not look happy. 

And Joanne Ramsay did not care. She turned back around and continued to the kitchen.

“Are you going to explain your bizarre behavior yesterday?” He was right behind her, closer than she would appreciate him to be. It was pretty unnerving to have your murderer right behind you. Joanne comforted herself in the notion of him not having thought of her murder yet. Or had he? 

But it wouldn't happen for another six months right?

RIGHT? 

“Like you said, some weird dream.” Joanne pulled out her coffee mug from the cabinet and turned to turn on the kettle. 

“It didn't seem like a dream. You were essentially feral. You kept screaming-”

“I know what I was screaming.” Joanne turned to him. “So? Does it matter to you?”

Reagan was lost for words. “Of course it matters to me-” 

“Did you kill my child?” 

He went quiet. 

“No, right? Then why are you hung up on it? It was a very vivid dream. Made me almost think it was real. I am over it. You get over it too. And go away.” 

She turned for the kettle only to scream when she was lifted off the floor and settled on the counter.

“What the hell? Let go!” She yelled as Reagan grabbed her hands and held them behind her back with one hand while tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Don't touch me.” She hissed.

“Why not? Did I do something?” He stepped between her thighs, pushing them open. “Why can't I touch my own wife?” His face was inches from hers. 

“Because-” Suddenly she retched. It should have been enough to make the man who despised her step away from her in disgust. But Reagan Knight just picked her up and planted her in front of the sink instantly. 

She dry heaved, nothing left in her stomach - not even water - to expel. 

And Reagan, the cold ruthless CEO who hated her with everything that he had, stood behind her, patiently rubbing her back and holding her hair up. 

There was something very wrong. 

She was scared now. 

Did she trigger something? Just like how the pap article didn't show up, was she missing something? 

The headbutt. Was it causing some kind of butterfly effect?

Was he already plotting her murder? And pretending to be amicable so that nobody doubts him? 

She washed her face. 

Looking up, she found Reagan holding a glass of water. She looked at it cautiously.

The man had never offered her anything except in front of his business associates.

Had he mixed something in it? 

“I haven't mixed anything in it.” Reagan said, sighing. 

“Why would you think I would think that?” She snapped back defensively even though he was right on point.

He pointed at his broken nose, no other words for explanation.

She rolled her eyes. She took the glass. 

He had a broken nose she had given him. There was no way he would kill her when there was evidence of a rift. 

She took a sip hesitantly.

“By any chance, are you pregnant?” 

She choked on the water. 

“You are?”

“I-I am NOT!” She sputtered, coughing. She swatted Reagan’s hand away when he tried to pat her back. 

“I think you are.” He mused.

Dread filled her stomach. He couldn't know. The plan was to get a divorce and run before Reagan found out his heir was inside her. 

“Excuse me? Now you know my body better than me?”

“I think we established that I do, in fact, know your body better since two and a half years ago.” He pulled out his phone. “Let's order a pregnancy test.”

Joanne shook her head, dread filling her to the level of her eyes and making her ears ring. 

Fuck my life!

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