Chapter 5

Ivy’s POV

“It’s just you and me now, little one,” I whispered again, my palm pressed firmly against my belly. The baby gave no response, of course, it was too early, but the gesture grounded me.

I had no savings worth mentioning, no friends, and a family that had chosen Sienna over me. Going back to the Rae Mansion was impossible. Dad won't even take me back, and Mom? She'd happily throw me back on the street.

“Where to, miss?” the cab driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I hesitated, my mind racing. Staying in this city meant constant reminders, possible run-ins with Rowan and Sienna, and the suffocating pity of people who knew our story. No. I needed distance. A fresh start where no one knew my shame.

“Take me to the train station,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He nodded without questions, and I leaned my head against the cool glass, letting the city lights streak by like falling stars. By the time we arrived, the afternoon had faded into early evening. I paid with the last of my emergency money I had hidden for rainy days, and dragged my suitcase into the bustling terminal.

The station was alive with noise. Announcements blaring, families hugging goodbye, lovers stealing kisses. I felt like an intruder in their worlds of possibility. I scanned the departure board, eyes landing on a midnight train to Oakridge, a mid-sized city about six hours away. I had visited once for a work seminar years ago. It wasn’t glamorous, but it had factories, small businesses, and, most importantly, no memories of Rowan. A one-way ticket cost nearly everything I had left. I bought it anyway.

While waiting, I found a quiet bench and pulled out my phone. No messages. No calls from family. I scrolled through old photos, deleting them one by one until my gallery felt as empty as my heart. A notification from the hospital popped up, a reminder for a follow-up appointment I could no longer attend. Rowan’s warning echoed again. Wait until you find out the truth about that pregnancy. What did he know that I didn’t? The thought sent a shiver through me, but I pushed it down.

When the train finally arrived, I boarded with the sparse crowd of night travelers. The carriage was dimly lit, seats worn but clean. I chose a window seat near the back, curling up as best I could. As the train pulled out, the city lights faded behind us. Tears came again, quieter this time, soaking the collar of my shirt. How had I been so blind?

Oakridge greeted me with gray skies and the distant hum of industry. I stepped off the train, suitcase wheels rattling on the platform, and inhaled the unfamiliar air.

I used my phone to search for cheap hostels or motels. A place called Riverside Inn appeared, with basic, weekly rates, near the industrial district. I walked the twenty minutes, legs aching, stomach uneasy from the pregnancy and lack of proper food.

I booked a room and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion pulling me under for hours. When I woke, hunger gnawed at me. I ventured out, finding a small diner nearby. The waitress, a bubbly woman named Maria in her forties, took my order of eggs and toast.

The next few days blurred into a rhythm of survival. I landed a job at the supermarket stocking shelves, early mornings, low pay, but it came with basic health benefits that might cover prenatal visits. My body protested, morning sickness hit harder amid the stress, and dizziness returned during long shifts. I pushed through, smiling at customers, ignoring the ache in my feet and heart.

Life in Oakridge slowly took shape. I found a second part-time job tutoring kids at a local center in the evenings, my old teaching aspirations resurfacing like faint sunlight. The children’s laughter healed pieces of me I thought were broken forever. I made a few friends. Maria from the diner became a friend, slipping me extra shifts and baby clothes from her sister. Mrs. Elena invited me to Sunday services, where I sat in the back row, finding unexpected comfort in the hymns.

But nights were the hardest. Alone in the small room, I’d rub my growing belly and whisper stories to the baby about a future full of love, not betrayal. I dreamed of peace. One night, dizziness struck again while cooking. I woke up on the floor, phone in hand, having called emergency services in panic.

At the hospital, they ran tests. “Mild anemia and high stress,” the doctor explained. “You need support, Ivy. You can’t do this entirely alone.”

I cried in the sterile room, but this time, the tears felt cleansing. I wasn’t alone, not really. The baby kicked faintly for the first time that week, a tiny reminder of purpose.

Weeks turned into a month. My belly rounded noticeably. Coworkers noticed and offered congratulations mixed with curiosity. I kept my past vague, focusing on the present. Savings slowly built, enough for better prenatal vitamins and a small crib from a thrift store. I painted one corner of my room soft yellow with cheap supplies, imagining rocking my child there.

Tears pricked my eyes, but this time they were warm with wonder. “Hey there, little one,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “You’re really in there, fighting with me.”

Maria had dropped off some extra prenatal vitamins earlier, along with a bag of gently used maternity clothes. “You’re not alone anymore, honey,” she had said with a kind hug. Mrs. Elena’s church group had also offered to throw a small baby shower next month.

I stood slowly, walking to the window to watch the sunset paint the river in golden hues. The dizziness from before had eased with rest and better food. For the first time since leaving, hope didn’t feel like a distant dream. It felt possible.

This city, these strangers-turned-friends, and the growing life inside me, they were my fresh start. No more looking back. Only forward.

I rubbed my belly again as another soft kick answered. “We’ve got this.”