Priscilla's POV
I had lain down without meaning to. The bed was too clean, too neutral. Nothing here smelled like me. Nothing recognized me.
Brenda's guest room was quiet — almost too quiet. She had welcomed me without questions, with that kind of softness that doesn't judge. But inside, I couldn't stay silent.
I thought back to my mother's words.
"You've shamed me. You're no longer my daughter."
She had said it without flinching. Like smashing a plate. Like erasing a name.
I placed a hand on my belly. It didn't show yet. But it was there. And I was no longer the same.
I closed my eyes. Not to sleep. Just to stop hearings
The door creaked softly. I didn't move. My face was turned toward the wall, eyes dry but burning.
Brenda stepped in, a tray in her hands. I recognized the scent of ginger, vanilla yogurt, sliced fruit. Gentle things. Things meant for me. For us.
She stopped. She had seen it. Or felt it. My tears, even invisible.
She set the tray down on the bedside table, without a word. Then sat at the edge of the bed.
"You can't stay like this, Pris."
I didn't answer.
"I know it hurts. But you're not alone. And you don't get to disappear. Not now."
Her voice was calm. But firm.
"This baby… needs you. Not a shadow. Not a ghost."
I closed my eyes. A single tear slipped down.
Brenda placed her hand over mine.
"You have to fight. For you. For him. For what your mother never saw."
I squeezed her fingers. Weakly. But I did.
I looked at her. She was there, with her tray, her tender gestures, her steady presence. And I understood. I was lucky. Truly. To have a friend like her.
"Thank you, Brenda," I whispered. "For everything."
She smiled, came closer, and I took her hand.
"Open your mouth."
She obeyed, amused. I offered her a spoonful of yogurt, then a strawberry. She laughed softly, then returned the gesture. I ate slowly. The taste was gentle, almost soothing.
"I booked an appointment with the doctor," she said. "So you can get checked. It's in an hour."
I nodded. It was good. It was necessary.
But she hesitated. Her gaze shifted.
"Pris… are you going to look for the father?"
My chest tightened. The air felt heavier. I lowered my eyes. A wave of anxiety rose — silent, but brutal.
I didn't answer right away.
I stood up without a word. My bare feet touched the cold floor. I walked to the window. Morning light barely filtered through. Everything felt suspended.
"Brenda… I lied to you."
She sat up, surprised.
"About what?"
I pressed my forehead to the glass.
"That night. I remember it. All of it. The house. The man. His voice. His face. Nothing escaped me."
Silence settled. Brenda didn't speak right away.
Then, gently:
"Why did you pretend? Why say you'd forgotten everything?
I turned around, eyes misty.
"Because I thought if I forgot… it would be easier to live with. Less real. Less heavy."
Brenda came closer. She didn't speak. She just held me.
And in that moment, I knew I wasn't alone anymore.
Brenda slowly pulled away from me. She looked at me with that worried tenderness — the kind that wants to fix without pushing.
"You have to tell him, Pris. He deserves to know. He has to take responsibility."
I smiled. A sad, almost ironic smile.
"There's no point."
She frowned.
"Why not?"
I reached for the table. Yesterday's newspaper was folded in half. I handed it to her without a word.
Brenda took it, unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the front page.
Mathieu Lewis-Darcy, the Billionaire Groom, Marries Amber Valrose
CEO of Lewis-Darcy Industries, Mathieu Lewis-Darcy tied the knot yesterday in Capri with famed model Amber Valrose. A private ceremony, all luxury and discretion, confirming their status as the most talked-about couple of the moment.
Brenda froze.
"That's him?"
I nodded. Once. Slowly.
She looked down at my belly. Then back at the article.
And silence fell.
Brenda set the newspaper down, as if it burned her fingers.
"Pris… that doesn't change anything. He still deserves to know. It doesn't matter if he's rich, married, or somewhere else. This is his child too."
I shook my head gently.
"I've made peace with it. I'll be a single mother. And that's perfectly fine."
She looked at me, her eyes full of things she didn't say. But she respected my silence.
I took a breath, then stood up.
"Come on, Brenda. We'll be late for the doctor."
She nodded, gathered her things, and followed me.
And I walked to the door. Not strong. But standing
**********
The hospital smelled of disinfectant, lukewarm coffee, and too-white corridors. Brenda walked ahead of me, brisk and focused, as if she were carving a path through the world. I followed, slightly behind, my thoughts tangled.
We had barely stepped through the glass doors when I bumped into someone.
A light but distinct collision. I stepped back.
"Oh, sorry…" I said, lifting my eyes.
And then time froze.
Samuel.
Samuel Atwood.
He wore a white coat, the hospital badge clipped to his chest. His eyes — dark grey, steady — met mine. One beat. Two. The world stopped.
"Priscilla?"
His voice. Unchanged. Just a little deeper. More grounded. It moved through me like a wave.
I stood still. Breath suspended. Brenda had stopped too, a few steps away, watching without yet understanding.
Samuel looked just as surprised as I was. He scanned me — not insistently, but with that quiet attentiveness he always had. The kind that sees too much.
"You… you're here for a consultation?" he asked, hesitant.
I nodded, wordless.
He glanced at Brenda, then back at me. Nothing about me betrayed what was growing inside. But I saw the question in his eyes — the one he didn't dare ask.
"I've been assigned here for two months," he said. "I didn't know you were in Paris."
I didn't answer. Too many things. Too many silences.
Brenda stepped forward, breaking the stillness.
"Hello. I'm Brenda. We have an appointment with Dr. Mirelle."
Samuel nodded, professional.
"I can walk you to her office."
I lowered my gaze. My heart was beating too fast.
And I walked behind him. Like crossing a memory I hadn't finished digesting.
Samuel walked ahead of us, the hospital corridors stretching in pale light. I followed silently, Brenda just behind me. The sound of our footsteps echoed softly on the tiles.
We reached Dr. Mirelle's office. Brenda paused at the entrance.
Samuel turned to me, his voice lowered just slightly.
"Priscilla… I'd really love to talk with you. Just for a moment."
I looked at him. His face was composed, but his eyes held something else. A quiet hope. An opening.
"Coffee, after your appointment?"
I nodded. No smile. But no hesitation.
"Alright."
He seemed relieved. Then turned to Brenda.
"If you'd like, you can wait in my office. It's more comfortable."
Brenda nodded, thanked him, and gave me a look — half curious, half protective — before following him.
I stepped into Dr. Mirelle's office.
And I knew that coffee would stir more than just old memories.
I pushed open the door. The air inside was warmer, quieter. A green plant in the corner, neatly stacked files, a poster about sleep cycles. I sat down, hands folded in my lap.
Dr. Mirelle entered moments later. She had a calm, almost maternal presence. Ivory coat, clear gaze.
"Hello Priscilla. I'm Dr. Mirelle. You're here for a first check-up, correct?"
I nodded.
She settled across from me, opened her notebook, and looked up.
"How many weeks along are you?"
"Just over six."
She jotted it down, then asked:
"Any pain? Nausea? Trouble sleeping?"
I answered in fragments. She listened without interrupting, noted without judgment.
Then she stood.
"I'll examine you. It'll be quick. You can lie down."
I did. The sheet was cold. Her hands were gentle, precise. She checked, murmured technical terms I didn't understand.
Then she sat again.
"Everything looks normal. You're healthy. We'll schedule an ultrasound in two weeks and begin bloodwork."
I nodded again.
She looked at me a little longer.
"Is the father aware?"
I lifted my eyes. My breath caught.
And that's when the door opened.
Samuel.
He stood in the doorway, frozen. His gaze moved from the doctor to me, then locked onto my face.
"Child?" he repeated.
His voice wasn't harsh or soft. Just stunned.
And I didn't move.