Page 51 of His Problem Alpha
The tears come, hot and silent at first, then wracking sobs that tear through me. They burn down my cheeks, drip from my chin. I taste salt. My shirt is soaked. I curl into a ball against the wall and cry until I can’t make any more sounds.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Time dissolves. The sun sets outside, painting the room in long, lonely shadows.
Eventually, the crying stops, leaving me scraped out and hollow. My head throbs. I lick my lips and taste nothing but salt and dryness.
I have to move. Do something. Anything.
I push myself up, my legs shaky. In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water and drink it down in long, desperate gulps. It soothes my raw throat but does nothing for the gaping hole in my chest.I brace my hands on the counter, my head hanging. What now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?
My stomach lurches. A violent, undeniable wave of nausea. I clamp a hand over my mouth and run for the bathroom.
I barely make it before I’m on my knees, heaving into the toilet. My body convulses, emptying what little is in my stomach until there’s nothing left but dry, painful spasms that make my abs cramp.
Great. Perfect. Literally sick with heartbreak.
I slump back against the cold tile, boneless and exhausted. My gaze drifts to the cabinet under the sink. A memory surfaces—the second pregnancy test. The one I never used after the first was negative.
No. It’s just stress. Grief. My body rebelling against the absolute fucking train wreck of my life.
But the thought won’t leave. I’m late. So tired lately. The morning sickness I’d blamed on anxiety…
My hand trembles as I reach for the cabinet door. The box is there, shoved in the back. I stare at it, my heart starting its frantic drumming again. Do I really want to know? What if it’s positive? What if it’s negative? What’s worse?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the box, my fingers fumbling to tear it open. The plastic stick feels heavy in my hand, impossibly weighted.
My mind goes blessedly blank as I follow the instructions. Pee. Wait. Three minutes. I set it on the edge of the sink and sit on the cold rim of the tub, not looking at it. One hundred and eighty seconds that feel like a lifetime.
My phone timer chimes, a cheerful, obnoxious sound in the dead quiet. I silence it. Take a breath. Force myself to look.
Two lines. Stark and pink and undeniable.
Positive.
My hearing fuzzes over, the hum of the bathroom fan fading to a distant buzz. The room seems to pulse, the white tiles of the wall warping at the edges. I drop the test. It clatters against the floor, the sound a million miles away. All I can see are those two lines.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Alex’s baby. I’m carrying Alex’s baby.
From those nights. When we couldn’t get enough of each other. When he claimed me. When he bit my throat and whisperedmineagainst my skin like a prayer.
And he’s gone. He left. He walked out that door convinced he destroys everything, not knowing he created something.
I laugh. A high, broken sound I barely recognize as my own. Of course. Of fucking course.
But the grief doesn’t disappear. It’s still there, a massive, gaping wound in my chest. But something else rises through it—something fierce and primal. A protective instinct, sharp and clarifying. I might be heartbroken, but I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not anymore.
“Hey,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Hey, little one.”
My hand moves to my stomach. Still flat. Unchanged. But everything is different now. I’m terrified. And somehow, not alone anymore.
I wait for the panic to hit—single parent, raising a child alone—but it doesn’t come. Instead, a strange, cold calm settles over me. This is real. This is happening. And I’m going to figure it out.
First, I have to get out of here. I can’t stay in this apartment, surrounded by the ghost of him. I need space.
I push myself up. Decision made. I’ll go to Raymond’s. He’ll let me crash. I’ll figure out the rest later. One hour at a time.
I move on autopilot, barely seeing what I’m packing. I grab my toothbrush. My favorite sweater. The charger for my designtablet. I stuff them into a backpack, not caring if anything gets wrinkled. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but leaving.
In the kitchen, I freeze. The blue mug—his favorite—sits on the counter where I left it this morning. Full of coffee I’d made as a peace offering. Cold now. Untouched. A lump forms in my throat.
