A silence fell between us, then she gasped. “Oh, Emma,” Rachel said, her voice a mix of shock and worry. “You have to be careful. They can’t find out about you.”
My thoughts raced as I lay on the hospital bed, trying to grasp the reality of it all. “But, Rachel, I can’t just… get rid of it,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s Harrison’s baby.”
“Emma, listen to me,” Rachel said urgently, cutting through my confusion. “You don’t know what they can do. They’ll use the baby to control you. You have to think of what’s best for you.”
But all I could think about was the tiny life growing inside me, a part of Harrison that no one could take away. “I can’t,” I said firmly. “I won’t.”
Rachel’s voice softened. “I understand,” she said. “But please, be careful. They’re always watching. If they find out, they’ll come for you.”
I nodded, tears running down my cheeks as I whispered, “Thank you, Rachel.”
After I hung up, her warning sank in like a weight pressing on me. The quiet hum of the hospital sounded louder, filling the silence around me. Rachel had been right about so much-the mansion’s dark secrets, the danger of staying, the importance of leaving-but this? I hadn’t expected this. A baby.
The doctor came back, still smiling, unaware of my turmoil. She handed me a stack of papers and started explaining my condition, the care I’d need, and options for treatment. But my mind drifted, caught up in worry and trying to imagine what this meant for my future. I took the papers without looking, nodding along as she spoke.
Once she left, I called Rachel again. Her voice eased my fear. “You’re strong,” she said, “you’ll get through this.” Her words didn’t erase my worry, but they made me feel a little less alone. We talked through the night, her voice comforting me as I lay in the hospital bed. She didn’t have answers, but she promised she’d be there for me, no matter what.
The next morning, I checked out of the hospital with a new sense of purpose. I had to protect my baby, which meant keeping this secret hidden. I went back to the cafe, thoughts swirling about how to shield my child from the mansion’s grip.
Sophie, a coworker, noticed I seemed distant and asked if I was okay. I managed a small smile and told her I was just tired from moving. She patted my shoulder and said I should take it easy, mentioning a friend who was a doctor and could help. I thanked her but declined. Any medical record could link back to me, and I couldn’t risk it.
As the days passed, my stomach grew, along with my worry. I buried myself in work, scrubbing floors and washing dishes until my hands ached. The pain of my new reality mixed with the exhaustion of pregnancy and my constant fear of being found out. Rachel called often, her voice a light in my dark thoughts. She had no miracle answers, but her care helped me stay strong.
One afternoon, a regular customer named Margaret approached me. She was an older woman with a kind face, and she had noticed my growing belly. “You look like you could use some advice,” she said, patting my hand gently.
Margaret turned out to be a retired midwife, and she offered to help me through my pregnancy. She knew a place where I could get free prenatal care without risking my identity. With Rachel’s approval, I agreed, feeling a tiny flicker of hope.
Our secret meetings became a lifeline. In the warmth of her cozy, cluttered living room, we talked about baby names and how to handle morning sickness. She became a motherly figure, filling the emptiness left by Rachel’s absence. Rachel still called as often as she could, but I sensed that the mansion’s hold on her was growing, and her words became more cautious.
The months went by slowly, and as my belly grew, so did my fear. I avoided mirrors, not wanting to see the visible reminder of what I carried. My small apartment felt smaller, the walls closing in as my due date approached. Rachel sent money and care packages, but her voice became weaker on the phone, as though the mansion was pulling her away.
Then, one rainy night, it happened. I took deep breaths as the contractions came closer together. I couldn’t go to a hospital-it was too risky. So I called Margaret, who arrived quickly, her face a mix of excitement and worry. She had delivered many babies in her time, but this was different. This was my baby, a child I had to hide from the world that had taken so much from me.
Margaret set up a makeshift delivery area in my apartment, spreading towels and a plastic mat on the floor. She talked me through each step, her voice calm, as the pain grew worse. Rachel called, whispering encouragement over the phone. “You’re strong, Emma,” she said. “You can do this.”
Hours blurred together as I pushed, sweat soaking my hair, my body trembling with exhaustion. Margaret held my hand, her face calm as she coached me through each agonizing contraction. Finally, with one last scream, I felt a release, and a small, warm weight was placed in my arms. It was a boy, with a head of dark hair just like Harrison’s. I looked down at him, my heart bursting with love and fear. I had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed.
I named him Ethan, a name untouched by the mansion or its twisted games. He was mine, a light in a world that had been so dark. Rachel sent more money and gifts, her voice both happy and sad in the few moments we spoke. I knew she was afraid for us both, and I promised her I’d keep Ethan safe.
But fear lingered, even in my happiest moments. I’d catch myself glancing at the door, expecting it to burst open at any moment with Mr. Luca’s men, there to take him from me. The apartment felt less like a refuge and more like a trap, my every move shadowed by the need to stay hidden. Rachel’s calls became rare, her voice a faint whisper against the silence.