Chapter Five

Clinton’s POV

“I’m pregnant.”

For a second, my brain refused to process the words.

Then my grandmother gasped.

The sound broke something open inside me.

I looked at Sonia with that soft smile on her face. The way her hands rested over her stomach was almost instinctive. She was… calm, and I could only wonder what God put in her that made her face so beautiful and that could only make me go crazy.

“Pregnant?” Grandma Margaret whispered, already pushing her chair back. “Oh my goodness… oh my goodness, my dear….”

She was crying before she reached Sonia, cupping her face like she was holding something precious, something fragile. “This is wonderful. This is such a blessing.”

My chest tightened.

A baby.

Our baby.

I hadn’t known how much I wanted to hear that word until it was suddenly real.

I stood without realising it, my chair scraping softly against the floor. Sonia’s eyes lifted to meet mine, and for the first time since our wedding, she didn’t look like a stranger standing beside me.

She looked like someone who belonged.

“How old is the baby?” I asked, my voice quieter than I expected.

“Three weeks,” she said gently.

Three weeks.

The timing made sense. The memory of that night surfaced, vivid. I felt warmth spread through my chest, followed quickly by something heavier.

Responsibility and Joy, fear as well.

All tangled together.

Grandma clasped her hands together like she might start praying right there. “I knew it,” she said breathlessly. “I knew God wouldn’t leave me without seeing this day.”

She turned sharply to me. “Clinton! Say something.”

I swallowed.

“I’m happy,” I said honestly. “Truly. I’m just so surprised this is happening”

Sonia’s smile faltered just a little, like she hadn’t expected that.

“I will take care of you,” I added, without thinking. “Both of you.”

Grandma nodded approvingly. “That’s my grandson.” She fussed immediately, asking about doctors, food, rest, vitamins, already planning a future that suddenly felt solid and alive.

Later, when Grandma finally went to bed, still smiling to herself, the house fell into a softer kind of silence.

Sonia stood near the window, one hand resting over her stomach.

I joined her, standing close but not touching. Not yet.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “I think so.”

I hesitated, then said, “I know this wasn’t part of the contract.”

She looked up at me. “I know.”

“But I’m glad,” I said simply. “I didn’t think I cared about things like this anymore.”

She studied my face, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me.

“You don’t regret it?” she asked quietly.

“No,” I answered immediately. “I don’t.”

Her shoulders relaxed just a little.

“I’ll make sure Grandma doesn’t overwhelm you,” I continued. “And I’ll adjust my schedule. You shouldn’t be alone too much.”

“Thank you,” she said.

The words were small, but they carried weight.

As I watched her walk back toward the bedroom, something shifted inside me, something unfamiliar and unsettling.

This marriage hadn’t started with love.

But now, a child was tying us together.

And for the first time since my parents died, I wasn’t just living out of duty.

The following days have been so unexpected.

I hadn’t expected my house to turn into a battlefield of joy. I heard their faint voices as I approached the sitting room.

“No, no,” Grandma Margaret said, waving her hand dismissively. “The baby needs softness. Luxury is fine, but comfort comes first.”

The designer nodded eagerly, scribbling notes as if this were the most important assignment of her career. “Of course, Mrs Margaret. We’ll prioritise breathable fabrics. Pastels?”

“Yes. And neutral tones too. We don’t know yet,” she said pointedly, as if the baby might hear her and decide out of spite.

I came home just as the designer was packing up, my presence filling the room without effort. I paused when I saw her seated there, fabrics draped across my lap, Margaret mid-lecture.

“What did I miss?” I asked.

“Everything,” Margaret replied briskly. “And nothing.“Sonia, dear,” she said, turning to me suddenly. “Are you comfortable? You should say something if you’re not. Pregnancy is not the time for silence.”

She smiled, soft and practised. “I’m fine, Grandma.”

She frowned. “Don’t call me Grandma. I’m not that old.”

Sonia swallowed a laugh. “Margaret, then.”

“Better.”

Note: Dear readers, there will be a pov switching in this chapter so that we can enjoy the chapter with the monologue of each character.

Sonia POV.

Grandma reached for her hand, patting it gently. “You’re glowing.”

The word hit me harder than it should have.

Glowing.

If only she knew how much effort it took to look this calm. How much makeup hid the shadows beneath my eyes. How every mirror felt like a quiet accusation.

I was carrying another man’s child.

And being loved for it.

Your wife needs clothes worthy of motherhood.”

His eyes flicked to mine, warm, amused. “Do you?”

“I think I’ll survive,” I said softly.

He smiled at that. Not polite. Not distant.

Real.

That smile had become dangerous.

Later, after Margaret finally retreated for her afternoon rest, Clinton found me in the kitchen, staring into nothing as the kettle boiled dry.

“You’re thinking again,” he said.

I startled slightly. “I do that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He turned off the stove and leaned against the counter beside me. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Away from this house,” he said lightly. “Before Grandma plans the baby’s college.”

I laughed despite myself.

We went out quietly; there was no driver, no bowing of the maid, just like a normal couple. Just us. He took me to a small restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, simple, warm, intimate.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said as we sat.

“I wanted to.”

That word again.

Wanted.

He ordered for me without assuming, checking my preferences gently, and asking about foods the doctor recommended. Every question felt like care layered upon care.

It terrified me.

We talked about how to raise the child; he wishes to know if I’m comfortable. Ask about a few childhood memories. He shared about his parents briefly. The silence that followed their names was heavy, respectful. I saw how he struggles to continue, and it’s obvious that it’s a memory that he doesn’t want to remember.

“You don’t talk about yourself much,” he said at one point.

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that.”

I looked down at my hands. “Some lives are quieter, and it will be better not to talk about it”

He studied me for a moment, then reached across the table, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. The touch was brief, but my breath caught.

“You’re not invisible to me,” he said.

I almost told him then.

The words rose in my throat like a scream.

But I swallowed them.

After dinner, he walked me slowly down the street, his pace matching mine unconsciously. When I paused to admire the flower shop window, he went inside and came back with a small bouquet.

“For you,” he said.

I stared at the flowers as if they might explode.

“Clinton… you don’t have to..”

“I know.”

The night air felt thick, heavy with things unsaid.

At home, as I prepared for bed, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hand rested over my stomach again, it has become my habit now.

“This isn’t yours,” I whispered.

The guilt finally found its voice.

Every smile from Margaret. Every gentle look from Clinton. Every plan, every promise, all built on a lie that grew heavier with each passing day.

When Clinton knocked softly at the door later, my heart nearly broke.

“Just checking on you,” he said. “You seemed tired.”

“I am,” I replied.

He hesitated, then stepped closer. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

If only he knew.

When he kissed my forehead, something tender inside me fractured.

For a moment, I wanted him badly.

And that made the truth unbearable to tell.

As he left, I pressed my back against the door and finally let the tears fall silently, carefully, so no one would hear the sound of a woman being loved for a child that wasn’t his.

“Hey sonia, are you sure you can continue lying to him?” A voice in me asked, but I can’t