All Chapters of Pregnant By My Ex's Brother : Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

I sent for him before the flowers had finished announcing Marcus’s visit through the apartment.Damien arrived fast enough that he must have already been close, hovering in that banned radius my mother had drawn and he kept testing. Ruth took one look at both of our faces and found a reason to check something at the far end of the hall. Mother’s door stayed shut. In the living room the bouquet sat between us like a bad joke.“Marcus was here,” I said.Damien’s expression hardened. “Of course he was.”“He said you were good at it.” My voice sounded thin and steady at the same time. “Ruining my father. Good. So you’re going to stop rationing the truth into versions that keep you tolerable. Methods. Pressure. Debts. All of it. Now.”For a moment I thought he might refuse on the grounds of my bed rest, the doctor, the bleed. Instead he sat on the hard chair Marcus had used, elbows on his knees, and gave me the operational version without the soft cloth he had tried to wrap around it befor

Jess sent the image before breakfast with no caption, only a line underneath: This is already moving. I opened it in bed, still arranged among the pillows like an invalid in a story I had never wanted to star in, and for a second I only saw Damien. Not the stairwell version, not the boardroom one. A man on a cheap corridor bench under dead lighting, jacket crushed in his fist, face emptied out, the whole posture so publicly private it felt obscene. Behind him, my building’s mailboxes. The same scuffed wall I passed every day. Victoria’s frame had caught him like a trophy animal that had finally sat down. Mother, from the doorway, said my name once. I turned the phone against the blanket. The photo did not stay a photo. By midmorning, Jess’s follow-ups made the shape clear: private circulation first, then wider internal drift, then the kind of external feelers that meant someone was testing how the market might digest a Voss heir looking broken over a woman. Alexander would use it a

ELENAObservation was a word that pretended there was distance between danger and the bed I was in.They moved me under lights that made everyone look sicker, and the pain came in waves that refused to become a pattern I could brace for. A cuff bit my arm. Gel, again, cold on my stomach. The monitor found my pulse immediately and then hunted for the smaller one with a patience that made my eyes fill before anything had even been said. Damien’s absence from the room was a physical fact and somehow still not a relief; I could feel him out in the corridor with his ruined hand and his ruined history and all the ways his world had landed us here.“Talk to me,” a nurse said, but the question was for assessment, not comfort.I tried. What came out instead was the truth in a cracked, humiliating rush, directed at no one and everyone; the ceiling, the machine, the child I had fought and carried and nearly ended in a clinic before any of this secondary war began.“I don’t even know if I wante

ELENAI survived the night in pieces.Sleep came in thin, monitored intervals, each one broken by the check of a cuff, the adjustment of a line, or the soft confirmation that the smaller rhythm was still there. Every time I surfaced, the room was slightly different. The lights had been dimmed. A nurse had changed. Mother had shifted in the chair beside the bed.But the monitor was still counting.That was what mattered.By morning, the pain had dulled into an ache that felt almost polite compared to what it had been. The word stable returned to the conversation often enough that Mother finally sat back in the chair instead of hovering at the rail, though she never stopped watching me.I drank water.I answered questions.I swallowed medication when they brought it.I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how close the night had come to becoming something none of us could undo.But my mind kept returning to the same places.The memo.The street.The blood.The fight.The d

Security did not have to put hands on me. That was the only dignity left in the exit: I walked out of the bay when they asked, past the curtain, past the charge nurse’s carefully blank face, past the long stretch of corridor where I had already learned what powerlessness tasted like. Behind me Elena was still crying into a decision that had my name on it. Ahead of me the hospital continued its ordinary traffic of the living and the barely holding on. I made it to the stairwell before the quiet break finished opening under my ribs, and there, against cold concrete with no audience worth performing for, I stopped being upright in any way that mattered. No speech. No smashed glass for witnesses. Just the air leaving my lungs in a hard, ugly sound I did not recognize as mine, the bandaged hand screaming when I braced it on my knee, the full inventory of loss arriving at once: the company peeling away under Alexander’s papers, the woman carrying my child sending me out of the room for t