The Aftermath

ELIZABETH POV

    

  

    It started with nausea.

    

    First in the morning, then midday, then again at night.

    

    I told myself it was food poisoning. Maybe stress or stomach bug. Anything but that.

    

    But somewhere deep in my gut, I knew.

    

    I was late.

    

    By a week.

    

    I'd never been late in my life.

    

    And that night,God!  that stupid! reckless night at that stupid ball, I hadn't been careful. I wasn’t thinking.

    

    I sat in my bathroom, hugging my knees to my chest, the cold tiles seeping into my skin. The test lay next to the sink. Still face down. I couldn't bring myself to look. Not yet.

    

    My hands were shaking. My throat felt tight.

    

    "You're being dramatic," I whispered to myself. "It's just late. You've been stressed.

    That's all."

    

    But I didn't believe that.

    

    Because my body didn't feel like mine anymore.

    

    Because my instincts were screaming at me.

    

    I turned the test over.

    

    Two pink lines.

    

    I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't even breathe. Just sat there, watching my entire life collapse in front of me in silence.

    

    What the hell do I do?

    

    I don’t even know what he looked like. 

    

    Not even his name. I didn’t know a single thing about him, except how he’d felt inside me. 

    

    How his body had pressed against mine in that dark room, a moment of reckless abandon. How his hands had touched me, too eagerly, too urgently. And how, in that moment, I had wanted it—wanted him. Wanted the escape.

    

    I had given myself willingly, as if that single night could erase everything that weighed me down.

    

    But now? Now I was left with nothing but regret. And shame. The kind of shame that sinks into your bones and poisons every thought. I had let a stranger in, in every possible way, and now I was paying the price.

    

    I had let myself be used.

    

    And in doing so, I had ruined everything.

    

    A knock came on the door. I didn't answer.

    

    "Elizabeth!" Jessica's voice rang out. "Open up!"

    

    Shit.

    

    I grabbed the test and shoved it under the sink, but it was too late.

    

    The door creaked open.

    

    Jessica stood there in a crop top and leggings, her hair up in a messy bun, eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

    

    Her gaze flicked to the floor, then scanned my pale face, and stopped-right on the white stick peeking from under the cabinet.

    

    "What the hell is that?"

    

    "Nothing," | said, too quickly.

    

    She pushed past me, bent down, and snatched it up before I could stop her.

    

    Her lips parted. Her eves lit with wicked delight. "No fucking way."

    

    "Give it back, Jessica."

    

    "You're pregnant." Her grin spread. "You're actually pregnant. Who's the father? Oh wait

    —you don't know, do you? It was that random guy from the ball, wasn't it?"

    

    My blood ran cold. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that night-"

    

    "And I didn't." She turned the test over in her hand, amused. "But now I'm going to.

    Daddy's going to flip. You're done."

    

    "Jessica, please."

    

    She looked at me like I was dirt. "You always think you're better than me. With your quiet little books and your tragic dead mom. You're not better, Lizzie. You're pregnant and pathetic."

    

    "Don't do this," I whispered.

    

    She smiled, walking out.

    

    I followed her down the hall, heart pounding in my ears. "Jessica, please, I'll do anything.

    Don't tell him-please-"

    

    She turned the corner and screamed,

    "Daddy!"

    

    My heart dropped to my feet.

    

    No. No no no.

    

    My father stepped out of his study, eyes already narrowed.

    

    "What is it?" he asked, his voice sharp.

    

    Jessica held up the test with the confidence of a child delivering a trophy. 

    

    "Elizabeth's pregnant."

    

    Silence.

    

    Dead, choking silence.

    

    My father's gaze moved from her hand to my face.

    

    "Is this true?" he said.

    

    I couldn't speak.

    

    My lips parted, but no sound came out.

    

    His face turned red. Then purple. "ls. This.

    True?"

    

    "Yes," Jessica said for me. "She didn't want to say. It was from some guy at the mask ball."

    

    His hand moved faster than I could flinch.

    

    The slap cracked across my face so hard my vision blurred. My head whipped to the side, my cheek burning, ears ringing.

    

    "You filthy whore," he spat.

    

    I stumbled back. "Dad-please-"

    

    "Don't you call me that," he shouted. "You are no daughter of mine!"

    

    Tears stung my eyes. Not from the slap, but from the humiliation. The fury. The betrayal.

    

    “You disgrace this family!” he shouted.

“You sleep with God knows who like a common whore and now you’re bringing a bastard into my house?”

    

    Tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t say a word.

    

    “What if the press finds out? What if my investors hear that my daughter got knocked up by some stranger in a ball like a cheap slut?”

    

    “I didn’t ask for this!” I shouted back, my voice cracking.

    

    He went still.

    

    

    Then he pointed to the stairs. “Go to your room.”

    

    I stood frozen.

    

    “GO!” he roared.

    

    I ran.

    

    The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur.

    

    He locked me in my room. I wasn’t allowed to eat. Not allowed to speak to anyone. 

    This wasn’t the first, second or third time my father would lock me up, sometimes he would beat me mercilessly before locking me up. 

    

    ************************

    

    The sun hadn’t even touched the sky when the door slammed open. My father stood there, jaw clenched, a duffel bag in his hand.

    

    “You’re going to your grandmother’s,” he said, tossing it at my feet. “You’ll stay there until you learn how not to disgrace this family.”

    

    My heart pounded. “Dad—”

    

    “Get in the car, Elizabeth. You made your bed.”

    

    The bag thudded against my legs. I picked it up in silence.  Each step down the stairs echoing louder than it should have. My chest tightened, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

    

    Outside, a black car waited. No one helped me in. No one looked my way.

    

    Jessica didn’t come to gloat. Josephine didn’t appear to spit venom.

    

    No one came to watch me leave.

    

    That’s how unwanted I was.

    

    I climbed in, clutching the duffel to my chest like it could shield me from everything that was about to come.

    

    As the car pulled away from the house I’d called home for twenty years, I didn’t look back. 

    

    I pressed my forehead against the window as the city blurred by, my hand flat against my stomach.

    

    I didn’t know what I was doing.

    

    Or how to be a mother.

    

    But I knew I was on my own.