Chapter 4

❤️Sophie❤️

Six weeks later

“If you keep staring at your food as if it offended you, it won't magically disappear,” my cousin teased, her voice barely reaching me.

I blink and force myself back into reality. The dining room is unusually crowded this morning.

My parents sit at opposite ends of the long mahogany table, while my aunts, uncles, and cousins occupy the remaining seats.

Family weekend breakfasts have always been a tradition in this house.

Usually, they are loud and fun.

Today, every smell coming from the table makes my stomach twist — the bacon, the fried eggs, even the freshly baked bread. I swallow hard.

“Eat,” my mother says without looking up from her plate.

“I'm not hungry,” I reply.

That earns me several curious looks.

My father lowers his newspaper. “Not hungry?”

“I had something earlier,” I lie, even though I know it’s a pathetic excuse.

The truth is, I've barely been able to keep food down for almost two weeks now. Every morning starts with nausea, and every afternoon ends with exhaustion. I told myself it was stress, heartbreak, too much work — anything but…

Oh my God, no. It certainly can't be that. I refuse to think about it.

“You've lost weight,” my aunt observes.

“I’ve been busy,” I say.

“You look pale,” Uncle Richard adds.

“I'm fine,” I say, fixing my gaze on the plate in front of me, trying to avoid their piercing gazes.

“You are sweating,” my mother finally says, looking at me properly.

“I'm just tired.” Before anyone can question me further, a wave of nausea crashes through my body.

Oh no. Not now. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Please, not here.

My stomach twists painfully; the smell of eggs suddenly becomes unbearable. My chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and I stand.

“I will be right back.”

I barely take three steps before I bolt from the dining room.

“Sophie!” my mother calls after me, but I don't answer.

I run straight to the downstairs bathroom. The moment I reach the toilet, I throw up — again and again.

My eyes sting. When my stomach is finally empty, I lean weakly against the sink, breathing heavily.

A knock sounds on the door. “Sophie,” my mother calls.

“I'm okay,” I reply.

“You’ve been in there five minutes.”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine.”

Another knock rings through my head, adding to the pain. Before I can stop her, the door swings open, and my mom freezes.

She looks at the toilet, then at my pale face, and then at the sink where I'm desperately rinsing my mouth.

A strange expression crosses her face—confusion, concern, and fear.

“Sophie…”

“What?”

“When was your last period?”

Every muscle in my body locks. “What?”

She stares at me impatiently. “You heard me. When was your last menstrual cycle?”

“I don't know,” I whisper.

Her jaw drops. “You don't know?”

My voice shakes. “I’ve been stressed lately — exams, Sebastian, heartbreak…” My brain searches for reasons.

She studies me for a long time, then shakes her head. “No.”

I laugh nervously. “No what?”

She grabs both my shoulders and shakes me. “You are not pregnant.”

The words hit me like ice water. “No.”

“You are.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe it. I can't be pregnant. “I'm not pregnant, Mom.”

“You’ve been nauseous.”

“It’s food poisoning.”

“You’ve been exhausted.”

I release a nervous sigh. “I’ve been working.”

“You missed your period.”

“I didn't!” My voice echoes through the bathroom. I hadn't meant to scream, but it just came out loud.

Everyone has gathered outside the bathroom: my dad, my aunt and uncle, even my cousins.

“What is going on?” my father asks sharply.

My mother turns to him. “I think…” her voice trails off, unable to finish.

“What?”

“I think Sophie is pregnant.”

Silence falls. Everyone watches me with shock on their faces, and I wish the ground would open and swallow me. This is crazy. They’re jumping to stupid conclusions. It’s stress, not more.

I burst into laughter. “No, Dad, I'm not pregnant.”

My dad’s face darkens. “Tell your mother she’s wrong.”

“She is.”

“Then prove it.”

“I don't need to prove anything!”

“No, you are taking a test.”

“I said I'm not pregnant,” I scream.

My father’s face hardens into something terrifying, and fear races through me. “You will take that test right now, Sophie.”

“I won't.”

He slams a hand onto the bathroom door so hard I jump. “You live under my roof. You will do as I say!”

Tears blur my vision. My whole body trembles.

“I can't.”

My mother gently takes my hand. “If you are telling the truth, the test will say negative.”

“And if I don't?”

Her face crumbles. “Please.”

Ten agonizing moments later, the entire family waits in suffocating silence. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.

I sit on the closed toilet lid with shaking hands. The pregnancy test feels impossibly heavy.

This is ridiculous. I'm not pregnant. It can't be. It was one night, one stupid mistake. Nothing more.

With trembling fingers, I lower my gaze. The result window slowly becomes clear: one line..

My heart begins to settle, then……

Another line appears beside it. Bright, pink, unmistakable — two lines.

The pregnancy test slips from my fingers and lands on the bathroom floor. Everyone’s eyes follow it. No one breathes, no one speaks.

My mother’s hand flies to my mouth.

My aunt gasps. One of my cousins whispers, “Oh my God.”

My father’s eyes drain of all color. Then they harden into pure fury.

The room falls into silence so heavy I can’t breathe. I stare at the pink two lines and realize…..

My life is over.