Chapter 2: The Help

Sarah

The sound of ceramic hitting the floor didn’t just break—it shattered into something final, something that seemed to splinter straight through Sarah’s chest as the mug slipped from her fingers and burst into pieces at her feet.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Genevieve Sinclair’s gaze dropped lazily to the mess, before lifting again, slow and deliberate, until it settled on Sarah like she had just noticed something mildly unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Her lips curved.

“Oh, Julian…” she said, her voice soft, amused, as if this were all terribly entertaining. “It looks like your help dropped something.”

The word hit.

It hit like memory.

Like bleach.

Like the sharp, choking smell that used to cling to Sarah’s hands no matter how many times she washed them as a child. Like cold marble floors under her knees, her small fingers scrubbing until they burned while her mother worked in silence beside her.

The Help.

Her throat tightened so suddenly she almost couldn’t breathe.

Genevieve tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over Sarah again—this time slower, more thorough, as if confirming what she had already decided.

“You really should hire better help,” she added lightly, as though she were offering a harmless suggestion. “It reflects badly on you.”

Sarah felt it then.

Not just the insult.

The placement.

The certainty..

Genevieve had already decided exactly where Sarah belonged—and it wasn’t beside Julian.

It was beneath him.

For one fragile, stupid second, Sarah’s eyes flickered to Julian.

Waiting.

Because surely—surely—this was where he would step in. Correct it. End it. Say something that would pull her out of the sudden, suffocating weight pressing down on her chest.

But Julian didn’t move.

Didn’t frown.

Didn’t even look particularly bothered.

He just stood there, watching her with that same controlled, unreadable expression he wore in boardrooms, as if this—her, this moment—was something to be assessed, not felt.

Genevieve turned away first, already bored, already done, as though Sarah had served her purpose simply by standing there and proving a point. She stepped back into the office without another glance.

The door shifted.

Then Julian walked out.

“Sarah.”

Her name didn’t sound like it belonged to her anymore.

She forced herself to look at him, even though her vision felt slightly off, like the world had tilted and refused to right itself.

There were a hundred things sitting in her throat, clawing to get out.

Who is she to you now?

What did she mean?

Why didn’t you say anything?

What do you mean—vasectomy?

But all of them tangled together, heavy and useless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Julian said instead, his tone low, controlled, already edging toward impatience. “Go home. We’ll discuss this later.”

Later.

As if what had just happened could be filed away and handled at a more convenient time.

As if her entire world hadn’t just been cracked open in front of him.

Sarah let out a small breath that didn’t quite feel like her own.

“I came to…” she started, but the words dissolved before they could form.

What had she come to say?

I’m pregnant.

The thought hit her, sharp and disorienting.

Pregnant.

With the child of a man who—according to the woman inside that office—had made sure that would never happen.

Her stomach twisted violently.

“I think…” Her voice felt strange in her own ears, thinner than usual, like it had been scraped raw. “I made a mistake.”

Julian didn’t stop her when she turned.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t even call her back.

And that silence followed her all the way out.

“I told you you weren’t supposed to go back there.”

The receptionist’s voice came at her from somewhere far away, muffled, like it had to fight through layers of water to reach her.

Sarah didn’t stop.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t trust herself to do either.

Because if she did, she might shatter right there in the middle of the building, and she refused—refused—to give anyone that.

Her steps carried her forward automatically, each one heavier than the last, her mind replaying the same words over and over again.

Your help.

Vasectomy.

You heard wrong.

By the time the elevator doors slid open, her vision had started to blur.

She stepped inside, pressing the button without really seeing it, the polished metal walls reflecting a version of her that looked composed, upright—almost untouched.

The doors closed.

And the second they did, the illusion broke.

The breath she had been holding tore out of her in a jagged gasp as her back hit the wall, her legs giving out beneath her. She sank down hard, her hands flying to her mouth as if she could physically hold herself together.

It didn’t work.

A sob forced its way through her fingers, raw and humiliating in the empty space.

“No…” she whispered, shaking her head violently, as though denial alone could undo everything she had just heard. “No, no, no…”

Her chest tightened painfully, each breath coming in uneven, shallow pulls that did nothing to steady her.

Three years.

Three years of hope carefully built and quietly protected.

Three years of doctors speaking in soft, careful tones. Of polite smiles when people asked questions she couldn’t answer. Of telling herself it would happen eventually.

Three years of believing—no, accepting—that the fault might be hers.

Her hands dropped slowly, almost instinctively, to her stomach.

“I’m pregnant…” she whispered, the words trembling as they left her.

A broken, disbelieving laugh followed, harsh and out of place.

“How is that even possible?”

The answer came too quickly.

Too clearly.

Her stomach lurched.

If Julian had a vasectomy… then there was only one explanation he would believe.

Her fingers curled tightly against her abdomen.

“He’ll think I cheated.”

The thought didn’t just scare her—it hollowed something out inside her completely.

Because how could she prove otherwise?

How could she stand in front of him, look him in the eye, and tell him this child was his when his own body said it couldn’t be?