When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 64

Amelia

A few days later, I shuffled between exam rooms at the hospital, my white coat feeling heavier than usual as I neared the end of my shift. The busy period had brought an endless stream of patients—everyone eager for check-ups before travel or worried about holiday stress affecting their pregnancies. The hallways bustled with activity: nurses rushing charts to doctors, patients waddling to the bathrooms, family members pacing anxiously.

"Dr. Thompson, your next patient is ready in room three," Jenny, the head nurse, called out as I finished updating a chart.

"Thanks," I replied, grabbing the folder from her outstretched hand. "Is this my last one?"

"For today, yes. Though we've got six more appointments added for tomorrow." Jenny gave me a sympathetic smile.

I nodded, suppressing a yawn.

"Dr. Thompson?" A timid voice pulled me from my sleepiness as I entered exam room three.

The girl sitting on the table couldn't have been older than twenty—a college student judging by the NYU sweatshirt she wore. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Thompson," I said, setting her chart aside. "What brings you in today, Megan?"

"I'm probably overreacting," she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "But my period is two weeks late, and I've been feeling sick in the mornings. My roommate thinks..." She trailed off, unable to finish.

I kept my expression neutral, professional. "Let's run through some questions first, then we'll do an examination and maybe a test."

Twenty minutes and one positive pregnancy test later, I sat across from Megan, watching her face crumple as reality sank in.

"Are you absolutely sure?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

"The test is very accurate," I confirmed gently. "I estimate you're about six weeks along."

As I talked her through her options, a strange thought tickled the back of my mind. My own period was late—a little over a week now. I'd attributed it to stress, to the upheaval of moving, to the looming Boston program. But suddenly, sitting across from this scared young woman, another possibility crashed into my consciousness.

'No, that's ridiculous,' I told myself. 'It was just that one night with Ethan, and we were careful... weren't we?'

I couldn't remember. The night had been a blur of drugs and desire, of whispered words and desperate touches. Had we used protection? I couldn't be certain.

After Megan left with referrals and pamphlets clutched in her trembling hands, I slumped at my desk, my mind racing.

"You look like hell," Rebecca commented, dropping into the chair opposite mine. "Long day?"

"Something like that," I mumbled, rubbing my temples.

Rebecca studied me, her practiced nurse's eye missing nothing. "You're pale. And you've been running to the bathroom all morning. Coming down with something?"

I hesitated, weighing my options. Rebecca wasn't just a colleague; she was a friend. "I'm late," I admitted finally. "And I've been feeling off—tired, nauseous sometimes."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Late as in...?"

"My period. It's about a week late."

A slow smile spread across Rebecca's face. "Well, well, Dr. Thompson. Sounds like someone might be cooking up more than Thanksgiving dinner this year."

"Don't be ridiculous," I scoffed, but my voice lacked conviction. "It's probably stress. The move, the Boston program—"

"Or," Rebecca interrupted, "you could be pregnant. It happens, you know. Even to doctors."

The word hung between us, impossible and terrifying. 'Pregnant.'

"I'll pick up a test on my way home," I said finally, more to end the conversation than anything else.

Two hours later, I stood in the bathroom of Julian's riverside apartment, staring at the pregnancy test instructions as if they were written in hieroglyphics. I'd performed thousands of these tests for patients, but doing one for myself felt surreal.

"Just pee on the damn stick, Amelia," I muttered to myself, finally gathering the courage.

Three minutes later, I stared at two pink lines, unmistakable in their clarity.

"Fuck," I whispered, my hand trembling as I held the plastic stick. "No, no, no..."

I double-checked the instructions, hoping I'd misinterpreted something. But there it was: two lines meant pregnant. I sank down onto the cold tile floor, my back against the bathtub, the test still clutched in my shaking hand.

Ethan's child. I was carrying Ethan Black's child.

My mind raced through calculations. That night, after the party where I'd been drugged—that would make me about five weeks along. The timing matched my symptoms. The fatigue I'd blamed on long shifts, the subtle nausea I'd attributed to hospital cafeteria food, the emotional swings I'd chalked up to divorce stress...

'What am I going to do?'

My phone buzzed in my pocket—Rebecca checking in, probably. I started to answer, then stopped. I wasn't ready to talk about this, not yet. Not until I figured out what this meant for me, for my career, for the Boston opportunity.

For Ethan.

Should I tell him? He had a right to know, but what would that mean for us? For the investigation he was conducting? Would he think I'd planned this somehow, to trap him?

I hauled myself up and wandered to my makeshift office, where I'd set up my laptop. Medical training kicked in as I researched early pregnancy, symptoms, timelines, risks. I made notes methodically, as if this were just another patient case and not my life being completely upended.

The next morning, I called a private clinic in Brooklyn, made an appointment under a false name, and took a day off work. I needed confirmation, needed to see for myself.

The ultrasound technician, Sarah, was kind and didn't ask questions when I showed up wearing sunglasses indoors, my hair tucked under a baseball cap.

"First pregnancy?" she asked as she spread gel across my still-flat abdomen.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Let's take a look then," she said, pressing the wand against my skin.

And there it was—a tiny blob, barely visible, but undeniably there. A heartbeat, flickering rapidly on the screen. My baby. 'Our' baby.

Tears sprang to my eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. Sarah handed me tissues without comment.

"Everything looks perfect," she said softly. "I'd estimate you're about five weeks along. Would you like a printout?"

I simply nodded and silently took the photo, then folded it carefully and slipped it into my wallet before leaving.

When I returned to the apartment, Olivia was in the kitchen, uncorking a bottle of wine.

"There you are! I was about to send out a search party," she called out. "I picked up Thai food and that Cabernet you love. Thought we deserved a girls' night."

I hung my coat slowly, buying time. "I'll pass on the wine tonight."

Olivia turned, wine bottle suspended mid-pour. "You're turning down a ninety-dollar Cabernet? Are you sick?"

I took a deep breath, then reached for my wallet, extracting the folded ultrasound image. "Not exactly sick, no."

Olivia's eyes widened as I handed her the printout. "Oh my God," she whispered, looking from the image to my face. "Is this... are you...?"

"Pregnant," I confirmed, the word still strange on my tongue. "About five weeks."

"But how? Wait—" Her expression shifted as realization dawned. "That night? With Ethan? I gave you the morning-after pill!"

“I took the first pill that morning,” I admitted, “but after that… everything that happened… my mind was a mess, I simply couldn’t remember taking a second one.”

Olivia set down the wine bottle and wrapped me in a tight hug. "Are you going to tell Ethan?"

I stayed silent, the question weighing on me like a stone.

"Whatever you decide," Olivia said, pulling back to look me in the eyes, "I'm here for you. Every step of the way."

I nodded, tears threatening again. Whatever came next, at least I wasn't facing it alone.