The clinic waiting room was everything I expected and nothing I wanted—sterile white walls, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and a silence so thick it felt oppressive.
Other women sat scattered around the space, each lost in her own private battle, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone else. We were all here for the same reason, and none of us wanted to acknowledge it.
Brianna sat beside me, her leg bouncing with nervous energy. She'd insisted on coming despite my protests that I could handle this alone.
"You're not walking into that place by yourself," she'd said, and her tone left no room for argument.
Now she was here, radiating supportive anxiety while I filled out paperwork with steady hands. Name. Date of birth. Insurance information. Medical history.
I treated each question like a task to be completed, refusing to let myself feel anything beyond the practical steps in front of me.
This was a problem being solved, nothing more.
A complication being removed.
By this afternoon, the nightmare would be over, and I could start rebuilding everything I'd almost lost.
A nurse called my name, and I followed her down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and anxiety. She led me to a private room, handed me a medical gown, and explained the procedure in a calm, rehearsed voice.
I nodded along, absorbing the information without really hearing it.
Change. Wait. Breathe. It would be over soon.
I was minutes away from putting this behind me and then the doors swung open.
Arnold Ashford, Damon’s father, strode into the room like he owned it—which, knowing men like him, he probably could if he wanted to.
He was tall, imposing, silver threading through brown hair that was styled with the kind of precision that screamed old money. His suit probably cost more than my mother's monthly salary.
Everything about him radiated authority, the kind that made people step aside without being asked and apologize for being in the way.
Trailing reluctantly behind him was Damon.
My stomach dropped through the floor.
Seeing the patriarch of the Ashford empire in a clinic room was surreal enough, like a fever dream I couldn't wake from. But Damon's presence made it worse—made it real.
He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past my shoulder. He wouldn't look at me directly.
Before I could react, Brianna burst through the door behind them, practically vibrating with protective rage. "Kitty, honey, I hope you're dressed! I tried to stop them, but these perverts just barged right into your room like they own the place!"
Arnold didn't even glance at her.
He spoke to someone in the hallway, a single command, quiet but absolute, and the medical staff who'd been preparing for my procedure simply... left.
Their objections died before they reached their lips, swallowed by the weight of the Ashford name.
With a bit more persuasion and the implied threat of what happened to people who crossed him, Brianna was ushered out too, despite her loud protests and creative profanity.
The door closed. I was alone with them, wearing nothing but a thin medical gown and my fury.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" I didn't bother hiding my anger—didn't see the point. "What gives you the right to barge into a private medical facility and disrupt a procedure that has nothing to do with you?"
Arnold regarded me with the detached interest of a man assessing an investment. His expression didn't flicker at my tone. If anything, he seemed mildly impressed by it.
"You're wondering how I discovered your situation."
Arnold's tone was almost bored, like he was explaining something obvious to a slow child.
"I have people who handle these matters. When my son's name surfaces in connection with a young woman, I pay attention."
"People," I repeated flatly. "You had people spying on me?"
"Investigating. There's a difference."
He straightened his cuffs with casual indifference.
"Eyewitnesses recalled seeing you and Damon together rather... enthusiastically. And your neighbor, lovely woman, very concerned about the young student next door, happened to notice a pregnancy test in your trash."
The violation of it hit me like a physical blow. My neighbors. My classmates. Random bartenders. All feeding information to this man's network of spies.
"You went through my garbage?"
"I didn't personally, no. That would be undignified." The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "But when multiple sources confirm the same story, I find it prudent to act."
Something must have shown on my face, because Arnold continued without waiting for a response.
"I'm going to make you an offer, Miss Morrow. You keep the baby and marry my son. Damon wasn't smart enough to keep his pants on, and now he'll face the consequences like a man. The Ashford family doesn't leave loose ends, and an illegitimate child floating around is an unacceptable complication."
I almost laughed at the absurdity. "Hold Damon accountable as much as you please. What does any of this have to do with me? Don't drag me into your twisted family feuds."
"You're carrying an Ashford heir. That makes you very much involved."
"I'm getting rid of this pregnancy."
My voice was sharp despite the vulnerability of my position, despite the gown and the cold room and the power imbalance screaming in every corner.
"I don't care what you think, and I'm certainly not destroying my future by shackling myself to a forced marriage with a man I can barely stand."
Arnold's expression still didn't change. He'd expected resistance. Maybe he even respected it, in his cold, calculating way. Then he mentioned money.
The number was so large I had to hear it twice before my brain could process it.
Enough to provide for my family for the rest of their lives. Enough to pay off my mother's medical bills and then some.
Enough to put the twins through college—good colleges, the kind with libraries and opportunities and futures. Enough to buy a house that wasn't falling apart.
Enough to erase every financial struggle I'd ever known.
I faltered. Just for a moment. Just a flicker of hesitation that I couldn't hide fast enough.
Arnold saw it—of course he did.
Men like him were predators; they were built to spot weakness.
"I won't be bought." The words came out firm, but the certainty that had been there before now had hairline cracks running through it. "I won't be controlled."
"I'm not asking you to decide today."
Arnold's voice was patient now, almost gentle in a way that felt more dangerous than his earlier coldness.
"Take a few days. Think it through properly. Consider what this could mean for your family." A pause. "But today's procedure is canceled. That much is non-negotiable."
I wanted to argue, wanted to scream that he couldn't do this, but the staff was already gone. The procedure had been postponed indefinitely by a man whose influence extended further than I'd ever imagined.
Arnold moved toward the door, then paused. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its businesslike polish, replaced by something harder.
"No matter what you decide, you keep your mouth shut about this pregnancy and my son's involvement. The Ashford name doesn't get dragged through gossip and scandal."
The words landed less like advice and more like a threat: cross him and there would be consequences I couldn't afford.
He exited with Damon trailing behind—still silent, still refusing to meet my eyes.
The door clicked shut, and I was alone in the sterile room, still wearing my medical gown, the solution I'd come for now impossibly out of reach.