CEO'S UNEXPECTED BABY

ELLA 'S POV

My heart pounded like a drum as I lay on the chilly clinic bed, staring at the ceiling’s ugly white tiles.

The South London Women’s Clinic smelled like antiseptic and bad decisions. Dr. Sarah Patel rushed in, her face pale as a ghost, clutching a clipboard like it was her lifeline.

She looked at me, her eyes wide, and said something that flipped my world upside down. I sat up so fast my head spun, my curly auburn hair falling onto my face. I had only come for a boring check-up, not whatever madness it was.

My stomach twisted, and I gripped the edge of the bed, trying not to scream. This couldn’t happen, not to me, Ella Thompson, the 25-year-old virgin who had never even been kissed properly.

But it was real and worse than I could’ve imagined.

The baby’s dad? Ethan Caldwell, the arrogant jerk who humiliated me in front of half of London

My life was officially a telenovela, and I was the star of the worst episode ever.

Let me back up a bit

I am Ella, a regular girl from Brixton, London. I worked at my family’s café, Thompson’s Brew, in Camden, where I poured coffee and dreamed of writing a novel. My grandma Maria raised me after my parents passed away when I was little. She was strict, always telling me to save myself for marriage and avoid trouble.

She was obsessed with telenovelas, those dramatic Spanish soaps filled with love, betrayal and outrageous plot twists. She watched them every night, yelling at the TV when the hero did something dumb. Sometimes I laughed and said my life was too boring for that kind of drama.

Well, today proved me wrong.

This morning started like any other. I woke up in my tiny Brixton flat, the walls covered in my sketches and sticky notes for my novel. It was about a brave girl who saved her town, nothing like the mess I was about to walk into.

I pulled on my favorite floral dress and denim jacket, grabbed my notebook and headed out.

Brixton Market was alive as always, the air thick with the smells of jerk chicken and fresh bread. Vendors shouted, music blasted from shops and I dodged a guy waving a mango in my face.

My phone buzzed with a text from Grandma.

“Ella, be careful at the clinic. No funny business!”

I smiled and rolled my eyes. Grandma was always worried I’d meet some bad boy and ruin my life.

If only she had known what was coming

I texted back, promising to be good, then hopped on the Tube to the clinic in South London. The train was packed, and I was squished between a lady with a screaming toddler and a guy eating smelly chips.

I clutched my notebook, scribbling ideas to calm my nerves. I was nervous about the check-up, but it was just routine, nothing to worry about.

At the clinic, chaos reigned. The waiting room was crammed. A woman coughed as if she was auditioning for a zombie movie; A teenager scrolled through TikTok, laughing too loudly. I checked in, my hands sweaty, and sat down flipping through my notebook. I had this scene in my head, my novel’s hero fighting a villain by the Thames.

I was lost in it when a nurse called my name.

She led me to a small room where Dr. Patel greeted me. She was nice, with a warm smile, but distracted, muttering about a hectic day.

She told me to lie down for a test, something about checking my health. I nodded, barely listening, still thinking about my novel’s next chapter. The room was cold, and I shivered as I lay back.

Dr. Patel stepped out, saying she’d be right back,

I stared at the ceiling, counting tiles to stay calm. My phone buzzed, Lucy, my best friend, texted about our plans to hit Notting Hill later. Lucy was an artist, always dragging me to quirky cafés or random festivals.

I was about to reply when Dr. Patel burst back in, her face pale. She clutched the clipboard like it might explode.

My stomach flipped.

“Something’s wrong, Ella, we made a mistake,” she said, her voice shaky,

I sat up, my heart racing. “What kind of mistake?”

She took a deep breath, like she was bracing for a storm,

“We mixed you up with another patient. You were artificially inseminated.”

I blinked, my brain stuck,

“Wait, what? You mean you put a baby in me? By accident?”

She nodded, looking like she wanted to disappear.

“I’m so sorry, Ella. It was meant for someone else.”

I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was insane. I was a virgin. I’d never even gone past holding hands with a guy. Grandma’s rules were burned into my brain: no boys, no trouble, no babies before marriage.

How was this happening?

I gripped the bed, my knuckles white. “This is insane. Who’s the... the dad?”

Dr. Patel hesitated, then dropped the bomb.

“Ethan Caldwell”

My jaw hit the floor

Ethan Caldwell? The rich guy who owned half the hotels in London? The jerk who made my life hell?

Let me explain

Last month, I wrote a blog post for a local site, calling out Caldwell Hotels for jacking up their prices, so high regular people couldn’t afford to stay there. I called Ethan a greedy playboy who cared more about profit than people.

The post went viral. I felt like a hero, until Ethan showed up at a Brixton charity event where I was serving coffee for Thompson’s Brew. He recognized my name, smirked and said loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Ella Thompson, the wannabe writer who thinks she’s Robin Hood”

People laughed, my face burned. I accidentally spilled coffee on his fancy shoes and stormed off. We've been enemies ever since.

And now, his baby was inside me?

I wanted to scream, cry and run all at once,

“This is a nightmare,” I said, my voice shaking,

Dr. Patel looked like she might cry too. “I’ll contact Mr. Caldwell and explain. We’ll figure this out.”

I shook my head and grabbed my bag. “No way. I need air”

I stumbled out of the clinic, the London rain hitting my face like tiny slaps. The street was busy, cars honking, people rushing under umbrellas. My phone buzzed again, Lucy asking if I was okay,

I couldn’t answer. My head was a mess, I was pregnant. With Ethan’s baby.

Grandma was going to have a heart attack. She’d probably wave her rolling pin and quote her favorite telenovela, “Love is a battlefield, but sin is a trap!”

How was I supposed to tell her I was in this mess, without, you know, doing the thing that makes babies?

I hopped back on the Tube, heading to Camden. The train was even more crowded now, and the chip guy was still there, munching away.

I stared out the window, but all I saw was Ethan’s face. Those gray-blue eyes, that smug grin. He’d probably think I planned this, like I was some gold-digger trying to trap him,

Ugh, I hated him,

My notebook was in my lap, but I couldn’t write. My story’s hero would know what to do. Me? I was just Ella, stuck in a plot twist I never asked for,

In Camden, I walked to Thompson’s Brew, the café my family had run forever. It was a cozy place with mismatched chairs, fairy lights and the smell of fresh coffee.

Grandma stood behind the counter, humming the theme song from her telenovela. She was sixty-five, with gray hair in a tight bun and eyes that missed nothing,

She saw me and frowned. I must’ve looked like a drowned rat, my dress soaked by the rain.

“Ella, are you okay?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron,

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. How was I supposed to say it?

Grandma, I’m pregnant, but don’t worry, it was a clinical mistake and the dad’s the guy I hate. She’d think I was cursed.

Before I could try, the café door swung open with a bang. I turned and my heart stopped.

It was Ethan Caldwell,

In a fancy suit, hair damp from the rain. He looked furious, his eyes locked on me like I was public enemy number one.

The café went quiet. Customers stared

Grandma grabbed her rolling pin, ready to fight.

“Ella Thompson,” Ethan said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, “We need to talk right now.”

I froze, my pulse racing,

Grandma stepped closer, rolling pin raised.

Lucy was probably texting me a million questions.

And me? I was standing in my family’s café, pregnant with my enemy’s baby, with no idea what had happened next.

All I knew was this felt like the start of a telenovela, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for the drama.

It's really crazy.