Page 36 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I bark a laugh that tastes like metal. “Um, fetus?”
The doctor’s eyebrows climb. He and the nurse share that professional look—equal parts sympathy andoops.“The one you’re carrying.”
I’m still kinda woozy. “I’m not carrying anything.”
“Based on labs, you are in your early first trimester. Maybe four to six weeks.”
Four to six weeks? Fetus? No. No, no, no. This can’t be. “I’ve never even…”
Except that I have. Thanksgiving weekend. Three sugar daddies, one biology major, zero emotional preparedness for any of it. Now this? My brain bluescreens.
I shake my head, which hurts. My voice cracks as it rises. “There has to be a mistake. I—no. I can’t be. Check again!”
They redraw my blood. Meanwhile, Arabella charges in, snow gear half-zipped, phone still recording from an Insta story she abandoned mid-caption. Her eyes go saucer wide when she spots my tear-streaked face. “What happened?”
I croak, “They say I’m pregnant.”
She powers down influencer mode in a heartbeat, tosses her phone into her pocket, and grabs my hand. “Deep breaths.”
It’s not long before the doctor returns with a confirmation. Positive. Dizziness whooshes right through me, so Arabella steadies me against the pillow.
He continues his professional spiel. “We’ll do an ultrasound, but with no abdominal trauma, we don’t suspect anything amiss. Get an obstetric follow-up within a week.”
Arabella stays for all the testing. I’m in the clear—just bruises, a mild concussion, and a tiny invader in my uterus. Back in the exam bay, she sits cross-legged on the cot, braids snow-damp. She squeezes my fingers until my knuckles protest. “Okay,” she says, voice low and even, the same tone she used freshman year when my dorm flooded. “Step one. Freak-out. Go.”
It’s like opening floodgates. Tears, ugly sobs, whole-body tremors. Words blur. How? When? What do I do? My life plan explodes in confetti. Next semester? Yeah, right. Grad school apps? Trash fire. Dad’s prosthetic high-five moment? Now overshadowed by me becoming a parent before I figure out how to do my own taxes.
Arabella absorbs it all like a saint, nodding, handing me tissues fetched from the supply cart. She reminds me that my helmet saved my skull, the baby is fine, and breathing is nonnegotiable.
“We can buy pregnancy tests to triple-check. I have a great ob-gyn back home. There’s counseling on campus to go through your options?—”
“Stop. Stop,” I choke out. “I can’t think about that right now.”
She takes my hand in both of hers. “Sweetie, you have to.”
Those words trigger another avalanche of tears. “I don’t want to!”
She almost laughs, but it’s not cruel. Just amused. “If you want, we can fly back home tonight and get this ball rolling.”
“I can’t go back…” I stare at fluorescent ceiling tiles that buzz faintly. “My life is over.”
“No,” she says, tone iron. “Your life just pivoted. We’ll reroute. You’re a scientist. You know how variables can change a situation.”
The hospital clears me after two hours and four pages of discharge instructions. Concussion watch means no slopes for at least forty-eight hours—not that I’m thinking about skiing now.
Twilight sets the Rockies on fire outside—peaks glowing orange, sky bruising purple. It looks like a postcard from someone else’s reality. Not mine. Not anymore.
Arabella drives our rental Jeep back to the chalet. Heated seats toast my bruised muscles, but I can’t feel warmth through the mental numbness. My phone lights up twenty missed messages—a group chat exploding withWhere r u?
I ignore it.
Dad texts a photo. Him catching a ball with his new hand, another prosthetic milestone. My chest seizes. I typeAwesome!complete with emoji confetti, guilt stabbing with every exclamation.
Back at the chalet, Becca and the crew greet me with hot cocoa and a blanket fort. Their excited chatter dims when they see my face. Arabella ushers them out—“give us a moment”—and we huddle in the loft bunk room.
She hauls out two pregnancy tests from the pharmacy haul. “Redundancy check.”
I pee, wait, stare at the barnwood floor. Two little plus signs bloom. No margin for error. I knew that at the hospital, but holding out this hope felt like a lifeline.
