Chapter 5

You're pregnant.

  The word bounced around my skull, mocking me as I made my way to the hospital exit.

 How? How could the universe be this cruel? How could I be carrying the child of a man who had just pledged his life and soul to another woman? 

A man who had looked me in the eye, handed me a cheque like I was a laid-off employee, and told me I wasn't the one for him.

 I looked down at my stomach. It was flat, there was no bump, no sign of life, yet inside, a tiny cluster of cells was dividing, knitting itself into a person.

 I stumbled toward the car park, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. I sat in the driver’s seat of my car, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

 My first instinct, the one born of fear and habit, was to terminate it.

 The thought rose up, dark and familiar. Go back inside, a voice whispered and schedule an appointment. Erase the mistake, you’ve done it before.

 Tears pricked my eyes, hot and fast. Six times. I had done it six times.

 I closed my eyes, and the memories flooded back. The cold stirrups. The white ceilings. Jason’s hand in mine, squeezing tight, his voice smooth like honey, pouring poison into my ear. "Not now, babe. The merger is coming up. We need to be stable. Next time. I promise, next time."

 I had sacrificed six potential lives on the altar of Jason Sterling’s ambition and wish. I had hollowed out my womb to make room for his ego.

 "No," I whispered to the empty car, the word surprised me.

 "No," I said again, louder this time.

 I can’t do it. I couldn't be the graveyard for his mistakes anymore. I couldn't walk into another clinic and let them scrape away the only thing that was truly mine. This child didn't ask to be created in the dying embers of a doomed relationship. This child is innocent and maybe, just maybe, this was God’s way of giving me back what I had lost.

    I knew what it meant. It meant being a single mother in a society that looked down on women without rings. It meant raising a child alone while the father played happy family with his oil heiress. It meant financial struggle, sleepless nights, and the permanent, living reminder of the man who broke me.

 "I don't care," I sobbed, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. "I don't mind being single all my life if that's what it takes."

 I drove straight to Stella’s apartment. 

 When I told her, she didn't gasp. She didn't judge. She looked at me with those fierce, protective eyes, and she simply asked, "What are we going to do?"

 We! Not you.

   In that moment, Stella proved herself not just as a friend, but as a sister. She became my backbone when mine had crumbled to dust.

 "I’m keeping it, Stella," I told her, my voice trembling. "I can't... I can't do the other option again. I won't."

 "Then we raise a baby," she said firmly, pouring me a glass of water. "But you can't stay here, Eve. The blogs... the gossip... if they find out you’re pregnant now, they’ll say you’re trying to trap him. They’ll tear you apart."

 She was right. London is a big city. If news got out that Jason Sterling’s ex was pregnant two months after his society wedding, I wouldn't know peace and neither would my child.

 "I have to go," I decided. "I have to leave."

 Three weeks later, I was on a plane.

 I sold my car. I liquidated the small investments I had made over the years—money I had saved despite Jason claiming he paid for everything. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to start over.

 I moved to another city, Manchester. 

 I chose it because it was far enough to be safe, but close enough that Stella could visit. I rented a small, one-bedroom apartment in a quiet neighborhood in Greenwich. It wasn't a luxury penthouse, but it was mine. It was a sanctuary.

 The months passed in a blur of gray skies and drizzle, a sharp contrast to the sun I was used to. But the cold was grounding. It matched the ache in my chest.

 Pregnancy alone is a unique kind of loneliness.

 I went to antenatal classes surrounded by couples. I watched husbands rub their wives' backs, watched them hold hands during ultrasounds, watched them share excited whispers about cribs and names. I sat in the corner, clutching my own hand.

 There were nights when the pain was unbearable—not physical pain, but the phantom pain of a missing limb. I would lie in my bed, the wind howling outside the window, and I would talk to the baby.

 "It’s just us, little one," I would whisper, rubbing the swelling curve of my belly. "Just you and me."

 Depression tried to creep back in, lurking in the corners of the room, telling me I wasn't enough, that I was damaged goods. But every time the baby kicked—a flutter at first, then strong, rhythmic thumps—it pushed the darkness away. This baby was fighting to be here. I had to fight, too and I wasn't entirely alone.

 Stella was my lifeline. She called every day, her face popping up on FaceTime to check my eating, to make me laugh, to tell me about the chaos of London without making me miss it.

 "You look glowing, Eve," she would say, even when I felt like a beached whale. "That Manchester water agrees with you."

 She visited as much as she could. She flew down for the twenty-week scan, holding my hand while we watched the grainy black-and-white image of a spine and tiny fingers. We cried together in that dark room, ignoring the confused look of the sonographer.

 "He’s perfect," Stella had whispered.

 He. A boy. An heir.

 The irony tasted like ash, but I swallowed it.

 By the eighth month, I was heavy. My ankles were swollen, my back ached constantly, and sleep was a distant memory. I spent my days walking. I walked through Greenwich Park, up the hill to the Observatory, staring out at the city skyline. I walked until my legs burned. I had read somewhere that staying active helped with labor, and I was determined to be ready. I needed to be strong for him.

 Then came the ninth month.

 The anxiety ramped up. What if something goes wrong? Who will drive me? What if I faint?

 But God, as always, had a plan.

 Stella arrived on a Friday evening, dragging two massive suitcases filled with London food—dried fish, pepper soup spices, things I had been craving for months.

 "I’m here until the baby comes," she announced, dropping her bags in the hallway. "I’m not leaving until I see my godson."

 Two days later, on a faithful Sunday morning, it happened.

 We were sitting in the living room, watching a movie. I laughed at something Stella said—a deep, belly laugh that shook my entire body.

 Pop.

 It was a strange sensation, like a balloon bursting deep inside me, followed by a warm gush of liquid soaking the sofa.

 I froze.

 "Stella," I gasped, looking down.

 Stella moved faster than I had ever seen her move. "Okay! Okay! It’s time! Grab the bag! Where are your shoes?"

 She drove the rental car like a Formula 1 driver, navigating the Manchester roundabouts with a terrifying focus. I was in the passenger seat, gripping the handle, breathing through the waves of pressure that were already tightening around my midsection.

 "Breathe, Eve! Hee-hoo, hee-hoo!" Stella chanted, sounding like a chaotic midwife.

 "I am breathing!" I snapped, then groaned as a contraction ripped through me. They were coming fast. Too fast.

 By the time we pulled up to the hospital entrance, I couldn't walk. Stella flagged down a nurse with a wheelchair, and they rushed me into the maternity ward.

 "First baby?" the triage nurse asked, looking calm and bored as she checked my file.

 "Yes," I gritted out, squeezing the armrests.

 "Okay, let's just see how far along you are. It usually takes a long time for the first—"

 She stopped talking as she checked me. Her eyes widened.

 "Oh," she said, her voice changing pitch. "Okay. You’re eight centimeters dilated, love. We need to get you to the delivery room now."

 "Eight?" Stella shrieked. "She just broke water twenty minutes ago!"

 "She’s been exercising," I panted, a weird sense of pride cutting through the pain. "I walked... every day."

 The next hour was a blur of bright lights, shouting, and the most intense physical sensation I had ever experienced. It wasn't just pain; it was power. It was my body taking over, doing exactly what it was designed to do, despite the years of trauma, despite the abortions, despite the heartbreak.

 "Push, Evelyn! Push!" Stella was by my head, wiping my forehead with a cold cloth, her voice the anchor in the storm.

 I didn't need Jason. I didn't need his money and his name. I had this.

 I bore down, screaming out the frustration of the last eight years. I pushed out the betrayal. I pushed out the loneliness. I pushed out the fear.

 Suddenly, a slippery, sudden release.

 The room went silent for a split second, followed by a loud, indignant cry.

 "He’s here," the doctor said, placing a warm, wet weight on my chest. "Well done, Mum. He’s here."

 I looked down, my vision blurry with sweat and tears.

 He was tiny. He was red. He was squirming against my skin, seeking warmth. I touched his small, slick back, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against mine.

 "My baby," I whispered, sobbing. "My baby boy."

 The nurses cleaned him up, wrapped him in a white blanket, and handed him back to me. Stella leaned in, her eyes shining with tears.

 "Let’s see him," she whispered.

 I pulled the blanket back from his face.

 The air left the room.

 It felt like a dream—or a nightmare wrapped in velvet.

 He had my nose. He had my chin.

 But the eyes. The shape of the face. The curve of the lips.

 He was just looking exactly like Jason.

 It was undeniable. It was a stamp of ownership I hadn't asked for. He was a perfect, miniature replica of the man who had destroyed me. The man who was currently waking up in a mansion in Lagos with another woman.

 I stared at my son, and for a second, I felt a flash of anger. But then, his tiny hand reached up and grasped my finger. His grip was strong. He opened his eyes, blinking against the light, looking at me with absolute trust.

 He looked like Jason, yes. But he was mine.

 "He’s handsome," Stella said softly, though I saw the recognition in her eyes too. She knew.

 "Yes," I whispered, kissing the top of his head, inhaling the scent of new life. "He is."

 I had run thousands of miles to escape Jason Sterling. I had hidden in a different continent. I had blocked his number and erased his photos.

 But as I held my son in that hospital room in Manchester, I realized you can never truly run from your past. You just have to learn to carry it in your arms and love it anyway.