POV : Lyana
The paper trembled in my hand, though my face remained perfectly still.
Positive.
One word. One verdict. One disaster wrapped in sterile white paper and stamped with a hospital logo that suddenly felt far too loud. I stared at it as if the letters might rearrange themselves out of pity, as if denial could be achieved through willpower alone.
Positive.
I pressed my fingers harder around the edges until the paper bent. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and something metallic, the air humming with the low, impersonal buzz of fluorescent lights. Outside the thin curtain, I could hear footsteps, murmured voices, the ordinary rhythm of a world that had not just collapsed.
I inhaled slowly.
Control, Lyana. You don't panic. You never panic.
The door clicked open.
The doctor stepped inside, middle-aged, polite, already wearing the expression people used when delivering news they thought would be received with joy. Her smile faltered the moment she looked at my face.
She cleared her throat. "Ms. Lyana, we ran the tests twice to be sure. You're approximately nine weeks along. Everything appears stable for now."
For now.
I nodded once, precise. "I see."
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the clipboard. "Will the father be informed?"
The question struck harder than the diagnosis itself.
I lifted my gaze to her, meeting her eyes with a calm that had been trained into me since childhood. The Vanther family did not crumble in public. We did not lose composure in front of strangers.
"He can't be," I said.
The doctor blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"He cannot be informed," I repeated, my voice cool, clipped, final.
Silence settled between us, thick and awkward. She studied my face more carefully now, as if reassessing what kind of patient she was dealing with. I could see the calculation behind her eyes, the unspoken conclusions. Wealth. Status. Trouble.
She nodded slowly. "Very well. We'll proceed according to your wishes."
When she left, the door clicking shut behind her, the room felt smaller. The walls pressed in, and for the first time since I had read the report, something dangerously close to panic clawed at my chest.
Pregnant.
I closed my eyes, memories surfacing uninvited. Careless nights disguised as certainty. Promises spoken softly, never written down. Love that had felt solid until it wasn't.
I pressed a hand against my stomach. There was nothing to feel yet, no movement, no sign that my body had already betrayed every carefully laid plan. And yet I knew. This was real. This was happening.
The door opened again, this time without courtesy.
My mother entered first, heels clicking sharply against the floor, her posture rigid. My uncle followed, then my aunt. Faces carved from concern, calculation, and something sharper beneath.
"Well?" my mother demanded. "Is it confirmed?"
"Yes," I said. One word was enough.
The room erupted.
"This is unacceptable."
"Do you have any idea what this will do to us?"
"The press will tear you apart."
"You've humiliated the family."
Their voices overlapped, accusations flying freely, each one striking with practiced precision. I remained seated, hands folded neatly in my lap, my expression unmoving. If I reacted, they would only grow louder.
Finally, my uncle raised a hand. Silence snapped into place.
"We need a solution," he said. "Immediately."
"There is no solution," my mother snapped. "Unless you plan on rewriting biology."
"No," my uncle replied coolly. "But we can rewrite the narrative."
I looked up then. "What narrative?"
"The public one," my aunt said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "An unwed pregnancy will destroy you. Destroy us. But a married woman carrying her husband's child? That's forgivable. Even respectable."
My stomach dropped.
"You're suggesting marriage," I said slowly.
"Yes," my mother said without hesitation. "Immediately."
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "To whom? The man who abandoned responsibility the moment things became inconvenient?"
Her jaw tightened. "He is no longer an option."
Of course he wasn't. When had he ever been?
"So what," I asked quietly, "you plan to pull a groom out of thin air?"
No one answered at first.
Then my uncle spoke, his voice measured. "A substitute."
The word settled into the room like dust.
"A what?" I asked.
"A substitute husband," he clarified. "Someone with no background that could complicate things. No ties. No expectations. A legal arrangement, nothing more."
I stared at him, disbelief creeping through my composure. "You want me to marry a stranger."
"Not a stranger," my aunt corrected. "Someone desperate enough not to ask questions."
The implication made my skin crawl.
"You can't be serious."
"This is the cleanest option," my mother said. "A quiet civil marriage. Minimal exposure. Once the child is born, arrangements can be made."
Arrangements.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "You're talking about my life like it's a damaged asset."
She met my gaze unflinchingly. "Because that's exactly what it is right now."
The words struck deeper than any accusation. I felt something fracture inside my chest, sharp and irreversible.
I turned away, staring out the window at the gray city beyond. Cars moved below, people crossing streets, living their insignificant, unruined lives. None of them knew that mine had just been dismantled piece by piece in a hospital room.
A substitute husband.
A shield.
A name.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. There was no escape from this. I could feel it, the walls closing in, the inevitability of being cornered by reputation, legacy, expectation.
Slowly, I turned back.
"If I agree," I said, voice steady despite the storm beneath it, "there will be rules."
My mother inclined her head. "Naturally."
"It will be in name only," I continued. "No interference. No claims. No emotions."
My uncle nodded. "Of course."
"And the child," I added, my hand unconsciously tightening against my side, "will never be used as leverage."
A pause. A brief one. But I noticed.
"We'll discuss the details," my mother said at last.
I looked at each of them in turn, committing their faces to memory. This moment. This betrayal disguised as pragmatism.
Then I asked the question that had been circling my mind since the word substitute was spoken.
"Who's desperate enough to take this?"
The room went silent.
Somewhere, far beyond the sterile walls of the hospital, a decision was already being made. I didn't know it yet, but the answer to my question would change everything.
And none of us were ready for the cost.