Page 29 of Brutal Reign
Oh my God.
I cover my face with both hands, trying to process what this means. How this changes everything. I feel like I’m floating outside of myself. Like none of this is real.
“I understand this is a lot to process,” the doctor says gently. “Would you like a glass of water or juice?”
I nod, grateful for a moment alone.
How could I have been so careless?
When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. The only thing he left behind was a sweet note on my kitchen table thanking me for an incredible night. No phone number. No email address. No way to contact him.
He’d followed my one-night rule, and while I should’ve been grateful, instead I felt empty and alone. He made me realize how desperately I longed for things to be different. For a normal life where I could actually be with someone like him.
The doctor returns with a small plastic cup and a pamphlet, which she sets down beside me. “You don’t have to decide today, but this outlines all your options. If the father is someone you’re in touch with, it might help to talk to him.”
I thank her and take the cup from her hands, trying to listen as she talks about booking a follow-up appointment, about vitamins and dietary changes, but her voice fades into the same white noise that’s been building in my head since I heard the word “pregnant”.
A short time later, I’m outside the clinic, walking aimlessly through the streets. The chill cuts through my coat, but I barely feel it. I barely register the city sounds around me: traffic, voices, life continuing after my world turned upside down.
There’s no room in my life for a baby. I barely survive month to month, counting every penny and wearing second-hand clothes. I have a go-bag under my bed, ready to run at a moment’s notice. How can I bring a child into my world?
The cruel irony is that I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I always pictured myself reading bedtime stories, kissing scraped knees, and being the kind of parent mine never got to be.
When I find myself in a small park, I sink onto a weathered bench, the pamphlet still clutched in my hand.
“All your options,” the doctor had said. As if someone like me has options.
I don’t know what prompts me to pull out my phone and type “Lukas Viklund” in the search bar. I haven’t Googled him once since the day he left. I wanted to, but resisted. I already think of him far too much. Going down that digital rabbit hole will only make moving on harder.
Still, I press enter on the search bar and hold my breath.
Only one result appears. The same author site I found earlier. There’s a dark banner with a brooding Viking sketch and text in Swedish that I can’t read. Instead, I click around until I find what looks like a contact form.
For one wild moment, I imagine reaching out and telling him that I’m pregnant with his baby. It’s crazy, but he has a right to know, doesn’t he? Before I can stop myself, I get lost in an impossible fantasy.
I picture us as a family, spending lazy Sunday mornings together, Lukas making coffee while our baby babbles in a highchair. I imagine him reading bedtime stories about his Viking ancestors and building snowmen during visits to hishomeland. Giving our baby the kind of stable, loving childhood I lost after my mother was killed. A life where our biggest worry is whether we’re saving enough for college, not whether we’ll live to see another birthday.
The daydream slips away as quickly as it came, swept aside by the cold reality that loving someone means putting them in danger.
Maybe when my inheritance comes through, life will be different. Two hundred million can buy safety and security, but it can’t buy love.
The thought breaks something inside me. I collapse into sobs, grief pouring out of me, my whole body trembling as I press both hands over my mouth, trying to silence the sound of my breaking heart.
My stomach roils. The pub smells like old beer and fryer grease, and I swear my feet have never felt this heavy. Everything feels harder tonight; even simple tasks like pulling pints and wiping tables, drain what little energy I have left.
I lean against the bar for a moment, chugging ice-cold water, before Chloe appears beside me.
“You okay?” she asks for the third time this shift, her face creased with worry as she studies me. “You still look rough, Lily. What did the doctor say about your flu?”
I manage a smile. “She said it’s taking longer than usual to clear. I need rest, which I haven’t been able to get much of.”
Chloe shakes her head, her forehead creasing. “You’ve been dragging your ass for weeks, babe. Maybe it’s time to call your family. I know you said they wouldn’t help you, but this is your health. There’s no way they’d turn you down.”
I squeeze her arm, guilt twisting in my chest. She means well, and I love her for it, but it only makes my lies feel heavier. Because there’s no family to call, no one whatsoever. “I’ll think about it,” I assure her.
The past two weeks since I found out I was pregnant have been a haze of worry, sleepless nights, and queasy mornings. I lie awake, indecision gnawing at me.
This pregnancy wasn’t part of any plan, but the fierce desire to keep it surprises me. In the dark of night, I picture a child with my dark hair and Lukas’s gray eyes, and against all reason, against all logic, I want to keep this baby.
