It’s been ten weeks since Viktor drove me home through winding mountain roads, when I walked back into my apartment and tried to pretend that four days of my life hadn’t been erased and rewritten.
I gave Jessie a lame excuse about meeting a man, making a foolish choice, and it not working out. She accepted it with the kind of gentle understanding that reminded me why we’ve been friends since college, though I catch her watching me sometimes with questions she doesn’t ask.
Tonight, the club feels smaller than usual, the air thick with sweat and tequila and the cloying sweetness of whatever fruity cocktail is the special of the week. The bass from the sound system pounds through the floor and into my bones, and something in my stomach flips violently.
I press my hand to my mouth and rush toward the back hallway, barely making it to the mop sink before my dinner comes back up. The retching is violent and exhausting, leaving me shaky and pale as I grip the edge of the industrial sink.
“Brina?” Jessie’s voice cuts through the sound of running water as I splash cold liquid on my face. “You okay?”
I straighten slowly, my legs unsteady. “Fine. Just something I ate.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for two weeks now. This is the fourth time I’ve found you throwing up.”
“It’s probably just a bug.”
“A bug that lasts two weeks?” She steps closer, her expression shifting from casual concern to genuine worry. “When’s the last time you saw a doctor?”
I dry my face with paper towels, avoiding her stare. “I don’t need a doctor. I need to get back to work.”
“Maya can cover your tables.” She takes the paper towels from my hands and forces me to look at her. “Sabrina, you’re scaring me. You disappear for four days, come back looking like you’ve seen a ghost, and now you’re sick every night. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”
“Stop saying you’re fine when you’re clearly not.” Her voice carries the sharp edge she gets when she’s about to dig in her heels. “You’re making an appointment tomorrow, and I’m driving you.”
“Jessie—”
“No arguments. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”
I want to protest and insist I don’t need medical attention for what amounts to a stomach bug, but the truth is, I’ve been sick for exactly two weeks, and I’ve missed my last two periods. I’m sometimes irregular—stress and irregular sleep schedules will do that—but not like this.
Not when I can pinpoint exactly when everything changed.
One night with Nikandr. One perfect, terrible night that I’ve replayed in my mind a thousand times since I’ve been home. One night when we used protection but protection isn’t foolproof, and sometimes, the universe has a sense of humor that borders on cruel. “Fine,” I say because arguing will only make her more suspicious. “I’ll make an appointment.”
The next morning, Jessie drives me to a walk-in clinic across town that takes patients without insurance questions and doesn’t require appointments weeks in advance. The waiting room smells like disinfectant, and I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair trying to convince myself I’m overreacting.
The nurse calls my name after twenty minutes that feel like hours. She’s young, maybe my age, with kind eyes and a gentle voice that immediately puts me at ease. “What brings you in today?”
I explain the nausea, the exhaustion, and the way food tastes different than it used to. I don’t mention the missed periods because saying it out loud will make it real, and I’m not ready for real yet.
She asks routine questions about my medical history, my lifestyle, my symptoms, and then she suggests what I’ve been dreading since Jessie forced me to make this appointment. “I’d like to run a pregnancy test, just to rule it out.”
I nod because refusing would be suspicious and because I need to know for certain even though my body has already given me the answer. “Of course.”
The test itself takes seconds. The waiting takes fifteen minutes that stretch into a lifetime. I sit on the examination table in a paper gown, staring at the motivational posters on the walls and trying not to think about what the results might mean.
When the nurse practitioner returns, she’s carrying a chart and wearing the kind of carefully neutral expression that medical professionals perfect for delivering life-altering news. “The test is positive,” she says gently. “You’re pregnant.”
The words stun me. I can’t breathe. My vision blurs around the edges, and I clutch the edge of the examination table to keep from falling. Suspecting it and having it confirmed are two different things. Suddenly, it’s real in a way that makes my chest tight with panic and something that might be wonder. “How far along?” My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.
She checks the chart. “Based on your last menstrual period, approximately twelve weeks.”
I frown. “That can’t be right. It was exactly ten weeks ago.”
She nods. “We go based on your last period, so that tacks on two weeks.”
I nod, understanding now how they calculate me to be twelve weeks though it’s only been ten weeks since I left the safehouse, walking away from Nikandr and trying to pretend what happened between us was just a mistake with which I could learn to live.
“Are you okay?” The nurse practitioner leans forward, concern etching her features. “Do you need a minute?”
I nod frantically, not trusting my voice. She gives me privacy to process and let the reality of my situation sink in. Twelve weeks pregnant with the child of a man whose last name I don’t know, whose phone number I don’t have, and whose world is so far removed from mine that it might as well be another planet.
The same man who made it very clear I don’t belong in his life.
When I finally compose myself enough to rejoin the world, the nurse practitioner goes over my options with the kind of professional compassion that suggests she’s had this conversation many times before, including prenatal vitamins, dietary changes, follow-up appointments. It’s the standard protocol for women who plan to continue their pregnancies.
She also mentions other options, speaking delicately about termination procedures and counseling services, and I’m shaking my head before she finishes the sentence. “No. I’m keeping it.” The decision comes out of me fully formed, like it was waiting just beneath the surface for someone to ask the right question. This child is mine, created in a moment of connection that was more real than anything I’ve ever experienced, even if the circumstances were impossible.
This child is mine, and I’m keeping it.
Jessie is waiting in the lobby when I emerge, and one look at my face tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, honey.” She stands and pulls me into a hug that almost breaks my carefully constructed composure. “Are you okay?”
“I’m pregnant.” The words sound weird aloud, both foreign and familiar at the same time.
She pulls back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders. “How do you feel about that?”
“Terrified. Overwhelmed. But also…” I search for the right words. “Also strangely happy? Is that crazy?”
“It’s not crazy. It’s human.” She guides me toward the exit, her arm around my waist like she’s afraid I might collapse. “What do you want to do?”
“I’m keeping it.” The certainty in my voice clearly surprises her. “I’m going to be a mother.”
We sit in her car in the clinic parking lot for almost an hour, talking through the practical implications of what this means, including doctor appointments, prenatal care, and maternity leave from the club, which will unofficially begin when I start showing. They can’t fire me for being pregnant, but it’s an unwritten rule at the club. No one wants to be served drinks by a pregnant woman.
I can probably eke out a few weeks or months working in the kitchen or cleaning the club but that will mean no tips and reduced income. How am I going to afford a baby on a cocktail waitress salary, assuming I can return when he or she is born? How am I going to manage childcare? I don’t have answers, except to one question. “No,” I say firmly when she asks if I plan to tell the father.
She frowns. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?”
That’s a question I’ve been dreading. I stare out the windshield at the busy street beyond the parking lot, watching normal people live their normal lives while my world shifts on its axis. “It’s complicated.”
“How complicated can it be? You call him, you tell him, and then you figure out what kind of role he wants to play.”
I turn to face her, and something in my expression must give away the magnitude of what I’m not telling her because her face goes pale.
“Sabrina, who is this man?”
The whole story wants to come pouring out—the kidnapping, the mistaken identity, the safehouse, and the way he made me feel like I was the most important thing in his world before sending me away like I was nothing, but I can’t tell her any of that without putting her in danger and dragging her into something she could never understand.
Instead, I tell her a version of the truth that skips the most dangerous parts. “His name is Nikandr. He’s…wealthy. Powerful. The kind of man who solves problems in ways that most people can’t imagine.”
She frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not safe. It means the world he lives in is violent and unpredictable, and I don’t want my child anywhere near it.”
“But if he’s the father—”
“He doesn’t know I’m pregnant, and I’m not going to tell him.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “This child is mine. I’m going to raise it alone, and that’s final.”
Jessie studies my face for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to push for more information or accept what I’m willing to share. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asks finally.
“Nothing that you need to know.”
“Sabrina—”
“Please.” I reach over and take her hand. “I know this doesn’t make sense from the outside, but I need you to trust me on this. I can’t contact him. I won’t contact him. This baby is going to be better off without him in our lives.”
The words hurt to say because part of me remembers the gentleness in his touch, and the way he whispered my name like it meant something, but I also remember the coldness in his voice when he told me to leave, and the casual way he mentioned making police reports disappear, conveying the understanding that his world operates by rules I could never comprehend.
A child changes everything. A child needs stability, safety, and predictability, which are all things Nikandr’s life lacks.
Jessie squeezes my hand. “Whatever you decide, you won’t face it alone. If you want to terminate, I’ll be with you at the clinic. If you want to raise this baby without the father, you’ll have support. Love. Family.”
The word ‘family’ breaks something loose in my chest, and tears start to flow. “I’m scared.”
“Of course you’re scared. You’re twenty-six years old, you work at a nightclub, and you’re about to become a single mother. Being scared is rational.”
I sniffle and wipe my face with the back of my hands. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I screw this up?”
“Then you’ll figure it out as you go, like every other parent in the history of the world.” She starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. “First things first though. We need to get you some prenatal vitamins and figure out how to tell Maya you’re going to need more flexibility in your schedule.”
The practical concerns feel overwhelming, but they’re also grounding. Doctor appointments I can schedule. Vitamins I can take. Work accommodations I can negotiate even if it means taking a pay cut from the time I’m showing until a couple of weeks after the baby is born. The thought of returning to work so quickly sends a pang through me, but I have to be realistic. I won’t be able to take much more time than that. Still, these are problems with solutions, unlike the complicated mess of feelings I have about Nikandr.
“What about when people ask about the father?” I ask as we drive home.
“You tell them it’s none of their business, or you tell them he’s not in the picture. Maybe you make up a story about a brief relationship that didn’t work out.” She glances at me sideways. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter what other people think. What matters is that you and this baby are healthy and safe.”
Safe. The word echoes in my mind as we drive through the familiar streets of our neighborhood. I am safe now, in a way I wasn’t during those four days at the safehouse. My child will be safe, growing up far away from the violence and danger of Nikandr’s world, but safety comes with a price. It means my child will never know their father. It means I’ll never see him again or have the chance to tell him that our one night together created something beautiful and precious.
It means carrying this secret for the rest of my life.
That evening, I sit on my bed with my laptop, researching pregnancy nutrition, prenatal care, and all the myriad things I should be doing to ensure a healthy pregnancy. The information is overwhelming, but I push on.
Underneath the practical concerns is a deeper truth that I’m only beginning to understand. I’m going to be a mother. In approximately seven months, I’m going to be responsible for a tiny human being who will depend on me for everything.
The thought should terrify me more than it does. Instead, I feel a strange sense of peace settling over me. This child is mine in a way that nothing else has ever been. This child is proof that something good came from those four impossible days, even if I can never tell anyone how or why.
I place my hand on my still-flat stomach and try to imagine the life growing inside me. It’s far too small to feel yet, but real nonetheless—real and mine and completely dependent on the choices I make from this moment forward.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to my unborn child. “I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to love you enough for both parents.”
The promise feels sacred in the quiet of my bedroom. This child will never doubt that they are wanted and loved. Even if they never know their father, they’ll know they came from something real that mattered if only for a short time.
