Jade didn't tell anyone.
Not a soul.
Not her mother, whose clipped phone calls had turned into weekly reminders of "duty" and "presentation."
Not her former friends, who once fawned over her socialite status but now barely remembered her name.
And certainly not Cole, the man who had humiliated her the night it happened. The man who, when it was over, had pulled away like she was a mistake he regretted making twice.
She could still hear his voice from that night, cold and final.
"Why stoop this low, Jade?"
As if loving him had made her dirty. As if the ache in her chest was her punishment for not being enough.
Weeks later, the nausea started.
Subtle at first. A twisting in her gut each morning that she passed off as anxiety. But it grew—persistent and undeniable.
Then came the tenderness in her body, the dizziness, the shift in her senses.
Her heart knew the truth before the test confirmed it.
She stared at the two pink lines in the bathroom of a faceless hotel she'd booked for the night just to be away. The test shook in her hands. Her knees gave out. She sank to the tiled floor with a soft, broken laugh that dissolved into choking sobs.
Pregnant.
A life inside her. A consequence. A blessing. A betrayal.
She didn't know.
She curled over herself, arms wrapping around her stomach like she could shield it from the world already.
"It's just us now," she whispered.
She never told Cole. She couldn't.
Not when he couldn't even meet her eyes in the mornings.
Not when the scent of Vivien's perfume clung to his shirts.
The risk of his rejection, the possibility he might not care, was too much.
So she booked her first prenatal appointment under a false name. Wore dark sunglasses. Pulled her coat tight over her body even as the spring sun warmed the city.
The clinic was small and impersonal. Neutral walls. Soft music. Friendly staff who smiled without knowing.
She sat in waiting rooms full of glowing women.
Women with men beside them, fingers interlaced.
Women flipping through baby name books and arguing playfully over whether it would be a boy or a girl.
Women who radiated certainty, love, and future.
Jade sat alone, her hands gripping a warm cup of peppermint tea she could barely taste.
When the nurse called her alias, she stood quickly, head down.
The exam room smelled like antiseptic and baby powder.
She changed into a paper gown, cold against her skin, and lay back on the stiff table.
"First pregnancy?" the doctor asked kindly.
Jade hesitated. Then shook her head.
"Second."
She didn't say the first ended before I even had a chance to feel it kick.
She didn't say I lost the first one before I even got to hope.
She didn't say a year ago, I miscarried alone in a hospital bed, holding my breath while the world moved on without me.
The doctor only nodded gently and proceeded.
When they dimmed the lights and turned the screen toward her, she stopped breathing.
There it was.
Tiny. Floating. Real.
And then—flicker.
The heartbeat. Fast. Steady. Miraculous.
Her throat tightened. Tears blurred her vision.
The sonographer smiled, misreading her silence.
"Strong little one you've got there. Everything looks great."
Jade nodded, unable to speak.
The moment they left the room, she crumpled forward, her hands clasped over her face, shoulders shaking. She cried quietly, not because she was sad, but because this was real. Because something—someone—was growing inside her that no one else knew about.
And this time, it wasn't just a faint dream.
It had a heartbeat.
On the way home, she didn't take a car.
She walked.
Past the flower stands and sidewalk cafés, past happy couples pushing strollers and college students laughing too loud. The world moved around her like she was invisible.
She clutched the ultrasound photo under her coat like it might blow away. Like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
By the time she reached home, her heels were soaked. Her coat heavy with rain. But she didn't care.
She went upstairs, changed into a warm sweater, and pulled open her closet. Taped the image to the back of the door behind a row of cocktail dresses she hadn't worn in months.
And then she sat on the floor in front of it, legs pulled to her chest, arms around her knees.
She stared at that little blur of life like it was the most precious thing she'd ever seen.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered. "But I promise I'll try."
Her fingers trembled as they brushed over her flat stomach.
"You're mine," she said softly. "No one gets to hurt you. Not like they hurt me."
There was no nursery. No crib. No baby shower.
There was just her—and the heartbeat in the silence.