Page 43 of The Fake Affair

Coming home tonight. Everything’s under control here.

My heart flutters.

And then my stomach turns violently. It takes me a long while to compose myself and get to work, but thankfully enough, nothing happens there. My body hurts in strange places and my throat feels itchy, but there’s no throwing up involved, soyay me!

After leaving work, I stop at the grocery store. I want to surprise him. Something about it feels grounding—cooking. It’s what Mom always did when Dad came back from trips. It made things feel normal.

Back home, I start prepping his favorite meal. Garlic hits the pan and I have to step back, the scent hitting me wrong, sharp and too much. I grip the counter and breathe through my nose.

By the time Logan walks through the front door, the sauce is simmering, but I’m barely upright.

“Something smells amazing,” he calls.

I turn, and the floor shifts. The ceiling blurs.

He’s at my side in seconds, catching me as I sway. His arm curls around my waist, steadying me like a vise.

“Bella?” His voice is close, panicked. “Christ, you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble, but the words vanish into the hum of rushing blood in my ears.

The world tilts. And then it goes black.

When I come to, I’m in our bed. The light is lower, filtered. The air smells like lemon balm and cotton, like comfort. Logan’s crouched beside me, one hand brushing my hair back. His other is clenched tight in his lap.

“How long have you been sick?”

“I’m not sick,” I manage, trying to sit up. The room sways again.

Logan frowns at me. “You fainted. In the kitchen. After I’ve been watching you get paler and thinner on every video call.”

I return his frown more ferociously, scrunching all my features into a tight knot. “I did not faint. I… temporarily disconnected from reality.”

He doesn’t even smile. “I’m calling a doctor.”

The panic begins to set in. “Logan, I’m fine. I’m just tired and haven’t been eating well, and—” I pause. A different kind of wave hits. Not nausea. Realization.

When was my last period? A strange hush spreads through me, cold and sharp and sudden. I count backward.

The wedding.

The coatroom.

None of those times were safe.

The thought must register on my face because Logan freezes. His hand stills mid-reach for the phone.

“Bella?” His voice is careful now. Guarded.

I open my mouth, but the truth sticks in my throat.

He sees it anyway. The understanding hits him like a car crash—hard and irrevocable.

His expression goes blank, then stricken.

I whisper, “I think I’m pregnant.”

Silence falls. And in that silence, I can feel every beat of his heart, every breath I take that doesn’t quite reach my lungs.

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