ONE

ELENA

I was lying on the couch like a lazy seal, one hand resting protectively on my stomach, the other clutching the remote like it was my only companion in life. Almost seven months pregnant, swollen in all the wrong places, and apparently the only person awake in the entire mansion past midnight. The only soundtrack in the house was me cackling at stupid commercials.

The Pick n Pay “Back to School” sale flashed across the screen, kids smiling way too hard while holding overpriced stationery. And finally, the Nando’s chicken commercial. Flame-grilled wings, that saucy voiceover, and I swear, my stomach growled on cue.

I laughed loud, ridiculous, over-the-top because if I didn’t, the silence in this mansion would crush me.

“Oh my God, Nando’s, you’re the only man who hasn’t let me down,” I told the TV, patting my belly like we were in on the joke together.

Then a kick. A sharp one to my ribs.

“Alright, alright,” I grunted, shifting to the side. “Don’t start with me, little warrior. Your legs work fine, I get it.”

My belly moved beneath my hand, a visible bulge pressing against my skin. I sighed, looking down at the roundness that housed my entire world. Nearly seven months pregnant, alone on a couch at midnight, waiting for a husband who treated time with me like an optional meeting on his calendar… this was not how I pictured life.

I leaned closer to my stomach, stroking the skin lightly.

“Daddy’s out taking care of some company business. He’ll be back soon.”

Another kick, right to the ribs. Accusatory and brutal.

“Wow,” I muttered, wincing. “You didn’t inherit my talent for pretending, did you? Straight to the point like your father. Fantastic.”

The truth was, even I didn’t believe my own words. For weeks, a creeping unease had been growing inside me, along with this baby. Damian was different lately. More distance, more late nights, and more unreadable glances that made me feel like I was missing a page from the script of my own marriage. And every time I tried to press him, to demand the truth, all I got was: Don’t think too much, Elena.

Don’t think too much? Please. Thinking was all I had time to do.

Our marriage wasn’t love, God, not even close. It was signatures on a contract, a neatly packaged deal! Romantic, right?

Still, despite knowing better, I loved him. Against all logic, I loved him. And since the pregnancy, he had softened. He studied parenting books, cooked me strange midnight cravings, even bought a ridiculous blue toy car and pushed it across the floor, imagining our child’s laughter. For a while, I thought maybe, just maybe we had a chance. Until recently, until the silence, the cold eyes, the late nights.

I shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position when pain stroke, sharp, low, and completely out of place. My stomach clenched, and I froze.

No, it wasn’t time. Not yet.

Another sharp wave rolled through me, and panic slithered up my throat. I grabbed my phone from the side table, scrolling to Damian’s name. Three rings, four. Finally—

“What?!” His voice was a whip of fury through the speaker.

I swallowed, gripping my stomach.

“Damian... something’s wrong. The baby, I—”

“If you feel sick, go to the hospital,” he cut in, his tone icy, impatient. “I’m not a doctor, I’m busy.”

“But—”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, the screen glowing, then fading into black, just like that. Just like him.

“No,” I whispered, fumbling to call again, but it took me straight to voicemail. Then again, voicemail. Again. Nothing.

The pain came sharper this time, tearing through me, and I dragged myself upright. My belly was so heavy I could barely see my feet. I shuffled towards the door, only to catch my foot on something hard.

The toy car.

Damian had bought it the day we found out we were expecting. He had squatted on the floor like an overgrown child, pushing it back and forth, imagining our daughter laughing with him. That memory gutted me now, because the man who bought that toy wasn’t the same man who had just hung up on me.

Fury and grief tangled together, and I kicked the car as hard as I could. It skidded across the marble floor, crashing into the wall with a clatter. My knees buckled, and I slid down with it, clutching my belly as another wave of pain hit.

“Mrs. Blackwood?”

The voice startled me. Mr. Hensley, our butler, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face drawn tight with alarm. He must have heard the crash.

I reached for him like a drowning woman reaching for a rope, clutching his sleeve with trembling fingers.

“Help me… please… please.”

He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped an arm around me, lifting me carefully, guiding me toward the door with a steadiness I clung to like salvation.

Another spasm hit, and I gasped, tears stinging my eyes. My last thought before darkness tilted the edges of my vision was bitter and heart breaking: It should be Damian here. Not Mr. Hensley. It should be my husband holding me, not a near-stranger.