Page 8 of The Grumpy Billionaire Baby Daddy

“Fiona McFall is back. Yes. Okay.”

She drops the receiver and gestures for me to go to Dr. Jimmy's office. I walk to his door and knock softly.

“Come on in.”

His office is a lot hotter as I step in.

Did the AC break or something?

“Hi again, Fiona. How do you feel now?”

“A little better, thank you.”

“Please have a seat.” He gestures, and I sit.

He lowers his head to stare at his computer screen before looking back at me.

“According to the blood test, you're about two weeks pregnant.”

The air in the room stills, and a sudden coldness hits my core. He’s still saying something but his voice fades to the background and all that runs through my head is that one single statement:

You’re two weeks pregnant.

My stomach ties in a knot. I've never in my wildest imagination believed that something like this could happen to me. I'm usually a decent girl. The girl who plays things safe. But that night…

My body revolts in a violent quiver as the information settles. Is this a nightmare? How could I have gotten pregnant from a one-night stand? I’m shivering and I can’t tell if it’s from the sickness or the shock.

“Fiona?”

My tongue adheres to the roof of my parched mouth, and my mind becomes a jumbled mess of confusion and fear. With great effort, I bite down on my lips to stave off the tears that threaten to spill over, unwilling to succumb to the overwhelming sense of despair that threatens to consume me.

“Fiona?”

“Uhhh… Yes?”

I look up at the doctor. He offers a sympathetic smile.

“The next step is figuring out your due date. From the tests, your iron levels are pretty impressive. You’ll also have to…”

His voice fades off again. The vivid image from just three weeks ago remains etched in my mind, but this time, it elicits a bitter taste. Jason Greene - the father of this child - is now a looming presence in my mind, but the daunting prospect of locating him feels insurmountable. And even if I do manage to track him down, what then? What is the next course of action? The weight of the uncertainty is suffocating, and I struggle to catch my breath.

“Oh, God.” My head swims. “Oh, my God.”

The tears escape my eyes, and I sniff.

“Fiona?”

I stare into his face.

“Do you have any questions or concerns?”

I plaster a weak smile on my face and stand to my feet.

“Not at all. Thanks, Doc.”

As I walk out of the hospital, the urge to throw up overwhelms me. I’ve never been in a situation like this. What am I going to do? The thought of my parents finding out fills me with dread - they've always taken pride in my unblemished record of good behavior, often boasting to anyone who would listen about their model daughter who never gave them any trouble. I never had a rebellious teenage phase, and the prospect of disappointing them is crushing.

Now I've gotten into more than enough trouble.

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