Jane POV
“You really did it this time, Jane,” I muttered to myself, staring at the ceiling.
Three weeks had passed since I left Carter King’s penthouse without looking back. Three weeks since my father screamed at me, broke a glass at my feet, and cut me off like I was a business expense gone wrong.
And I hadn’t seen my father since.
According to Lila, he packed his bags and flew off to Europe that same evening—“damage control,” she whispered while handing me toast. Apparently, my “little scandal” had made some investors question his reputation. One even pulled out of a big deal.
I smiled when I heard that.
Actually smiled.
It was the whole point, wasn’t it?
Make him squirm. Make him sweat. Show the world that his perfect little empire had cracks. But still, some bitter part of me wished they’d all dropped him. That his name would crumble just like he’d tried to break me all these years.
My father didn’t care about people. Not really.
Not love. Not birthdays. Not ballet recitals.
Only power. Only money.
Only appearances.
I remembered one night so vividly it still stung. I was eight years old, dressed in a white tutu, hair pulled tightly into a bun, cheeks powdered with a touch of pink blush. It was my first performance—Swan Lake. I’d practiced for months.
The auditorium was full. I peeked through the curtain again and again, searching for his face in the crowd.
But he never came.
Afterward, I asked him why.
He didn’t even look up from his desk.
“I had a meeting,” he said flatly. “You’ll have other shows.”
But I didn’t want other shows. I wanted him.
I wanted to be enough.
Now, years later, I finally stopped chasing that.
Especially since he’d officially cut me off.
I’d been surviving on what I had stashed away in my own account. Not much, but enough to keep going for a bit. I sold some of my designer shoes online—gifts from my father’s guilt. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I’d learned how to cook for myself. Ride the bus. Wash my own laundry. It was freeing, in a way. I was broke. Alone. But free.
Except…
I wasn’t feeling right.
Every morning for the past week, I’d woken up nauseated. Dizzy. Head throbbing. Some days I could barely finish my breakfast. The smell of coffee made me gag, and my favorite vanilla yogurt suddenly tasted like glue.
I thought maybe it was stress. Or hormones. Or karma, maybe.
But then today, I opened my app and realized something terrifying.
My period was two weeks late.
I sat up in bed, the sheets wrapped around me like a cocoon of panic.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no. This is not part of the plan.”
I jumped out of bed, nearly tripping over a pair of jeans on the floor, and ran to the bathroom. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
Standing in front of the mirror, I stared at myself. Pale. Sweaty. Wild-eyed.
I opened the cabinet, grabbed the small white box I bought two days ago and was too scared to open.
Pregnancy Test.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Take the test. It’s probably nothing. Just stress. It has to be.”
But my hands were shaking as I tore open the packaging and followed the instructions.
Then came the waiting.
Three minutes.
But those three minutes felt like a lifetime.
I sat on the cold tile floor, arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth slightly as I tried to breathe.
Please be negative. Please just be a scare. Please.
But in the silence of my tiny apartment bathroom, the stick glowed back at me with a truth I wasn’t ready for.
Two pink lines.