THE TIES THAT BIND

​The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Isabella’s apartment, painting golden stripes across the floorboards. Outside, the birds chirped with a cheerful ignorance of the turmoil brewing inside. For Isabella, the beauty of the morning was shattered by a familiar, violent lurch in her stomach.

​She bolted for the bathroom, the silk of her nightgown fluttering behind her. The sounds of her retching echoed against the tiled walls as she vomited. After flushing, she leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink, washing her mouth and splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection was pale, her eyes shadowed.

​Through the thin wall, she heard the rustle of sheets and the soft creak of her mother’s bed. Her mother had been quiet lately, watching her with a knowing, gentle sadness. Isabella realized then that she hadn't been as discrete as she thought. A mother’s intuition was a formidable thing; she had likely known before Isabella did.

​Retreating to her room, Isabella grabbed her phone—the screen still spider-webbed from the night before—and messaged Shante. Please bring a test. I need to be sure.

​While she waited for a reply, a notification popped up. It was from Robert Kobus.

​Kobus:Morning, gorgeous. I’m sorry about the abrupt end to yesterday. I had family matters to deal with. I’ve sent a little something to your account to say sorry for leaving you stranded. Hope you’re feeling better.

​A second later, a bank alert confirmed a deposit of 5,000. Isabella sighed, her thumb hovering over the screen. Morning, Robert. Thank you, but there really was no need, she typed back. In her world, 5,000 was a fortune, but today, it felt like paper.

​

​Across the city, in a penthouse that overlooked the skyline Isabella cleaned, Alexander Sterling was a man possessed. He hadn't slept. He had spent the night pacing, the half-heart necklace gripped in his palm. He was a father. The thought sent a jolt of electricity through him that was more potent than any espresso. He was already drafting plans, looking at property listings near the park, and researching the best prenatal specialists.

​His phone rang, vibrating against the glass table. The caller ID read "Mother-London"

​"Alexander, darling!" his mother’s voice boomed over the line. "We miss you terribly. Your father and sisters are all packed. We’re coming next week for New Year’s."

​"Mother, that’s great, but I have a lot going on—"

​"Nonsense," she interrupted, her voice brookng no argument. "And Alexander, we need to talk about your future. You need a wife, a proper match. Everything is being arranged. We will discuss it when we arrive. Kisses!"

​The line went dead. Alexander stared at the phone. A wife? His family was still playing the game of dynastic alliances, unaware that he had already found the only woman he wanted—and that she was currently carrying the next Sterling heir.

​

​By 1:00 PM, Isabella’s apartment was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of slow-cooked oxtail and savory samp. Cooking was her therapy, the one thing that made her feel in control.

​The door, left unlatched for Shante, swung open. Shante entered with a subdued energy that was rare for her. "Hey, Mama," she greeted Isabella’s mother in the sitting room, handing her a box of fresh, flaky pastries. "I brought your favorites."

​She slipped into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "Girl, how are you? Did you rest? Lord, it smells like heaven in here. Are you making oxtail?"

​Isabella offered a weak smile. "I’m stressed, Shante. But yes, I’m making your favorite."

​They shared a small, bittersweet moment of excitement, a tiny "squeal" of friendship that temporarily pushed the clouds away. Then, Isabella’s face turned serious. She whispered, "Did you buy it?"

​Shante reached into her bag and pulled out a brown paper sack. "Four of them. Different brands. Just to be certain."

​They locked themselves in the bathroom. The silence was deafening as they waited for the minutes to pass. Isabella stared at the small plastic windows. One line. Then another. Then another. All four tests sat on the edge of the sink, mocking her with two clear, pink lines.

​Isabella collapsed against Shante, a sob breaking from her throat. "What am I going to do?"

​"Shh," Shante whispered, rubbing her back. "Put yourself together, Isa. We can’t stress your mom. We’ll sort it. I’ll help you find a clinic. We’ll book the abortion and this will all be a memory. Let’s just eat first, okay? You need your strength."

​

​They moved to the dining room, setting the table with a sense of forced normalcy. Just as they were about to sit, a firm knock sounded at the door.

​"Come in!" Isabella called out, thinking it might be a neighbor.

​The door opened, and the room seemed to shrink. Alexander Sterling stood there, dressed in a casual but clearly expensive sweater and slacks. Isabella stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor.

​"Mr. Sterling? Is something wrong?"

​"Not at all," Alexander said, his gaze lingering on her for a second too long before he held out a sleek, white box. "I felt terrible about your phone. This is the latest model. I took the liberty of having your data transferred since Shante gave me the details."

​Isabella looked at Shante, who gave a guilty but mischievous wink. "Sir, there was no need for this. It’s too much."

​"Nonsense, Isabella. I broke it, I replace it. It’s a matter of principle."

​"Thank you, sir," Isabella murmured, looking at her feet.

​"Now, Alexander," Isabella’s mother interrupted, her voice warm. "Don't be rude. You can't come into this house and leave without tasting my daughter's cooking. Sit. Join us."

​Isabella froze. "Mom, Mr. Sterling is very busy—"

​"I’m never too busy for a home-cooked meal," Alexander said, pulling out a chair with a smirk.

​Isabella hurried to the kitchen to get a plate. As she was dishing up the rich, dark gravy of the oxtail, she heard her mother speak from the other room. "So, Isabella... did you want the father of your child to leave without even introducing him to me?"

​The kitchen went silent. Isabella nearly dropped the plate. She walked back into the room, her face flaming. "Mom! No, this is Mr. Sterling. He’s the CEO. He’s my boss."

​Shante blinked, looking at the mother. "Mama, how did you even know she was pregnant?"

​The older woman smiled sadly. "She’s my daughter. I know her better than she knows herself." She turned to Alexander. "I’m sorry, sir. I just assumed you were the one."

​Alexander didn't look away. He looked directly at Isabella, his expression unreadable. "No problem at all, ma'am. I understand. And... congratulations, Isabella."

​Isabella felt the world closing in. Her mother knew. Her boss knew. The plan to quietly end the pregnancy was evaporating before her eyes. If she aborted the baby now, it wouldn't just be her secret; it would be a grief she’d have to explain to her mother.

​

​The rest of the meal was a blur. Shante took over the dishes while Isabella packed a lunchbox for Alexander—a request he’d made after praising the food. She walked him to his car, the weight of the new phone in her pocket feeling like a leaden weight.

​"Thank you for everything, sir," she said as she handed him the container.

​"Thank you for the meal, Isabella," he said, stepping closer. The air between them hummed. "And I meant what I said. You’ll make a good mother. You’re an incredible woman."

​He left her standing there, his words acting as a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. She watched his car disappear around the corner, her hand resting instinctively on her stomach.

​Shante came out a moment later, her bag over her shoulder. "Girl, I don’t know what spell you’re using. Yesterday it was Kobus, today the CEO is bringing you iPhones. You’re a legend."

​Isabella didn't laugh. "Shante... my mom knows. I can't do it. I have to keep the baby."

​Shante’s face softened. She stepped forward and embraced her friend. "Then we keep the baby. I’m here for you, every step of the way."

​"Are we... are we going to look for the father?" Shante asked gently.

​Isabella shook her head. "No. In that industry, you don't find the fathers. Mama G wouldn't tell me even if I asked. He probably has a wife and a life. He just wanted a night of pleasure. I’ll do this alone."

​"Not alone," Shante corrected. "Never alone."

​As Shante’s ride arrived and she departed, Isabella turned back toward her apartment. She walked slowly, a kitchen cloth still draped over her shoulder, the golden sun setting behind her. She was scared, she was broke, and she was pregnant—but for the first time, she felt a strange, quiet strength. She was going to be a mother.