Chapter 2 - The Double Line
The timer on my phone was set for three minutes, but I didn't need to wait that long.
Before sixty seconds had elapsed, the first pink line materialized, sharp and bold in the control window.
And then, right next to it, a second line sliced through the white strip. Not a faint shadow. Not an evaporation line. A dark, unmistakable, undeniable crimson stripe.
Positive.
My breath hitched in my throat. My vision blurred as hot tears spilled over my eyelashes and hit the marble counter.
"I'm pregnant," I whispered to the mirror.
The woman staring back at me didn't look like Dante Moretti’s dutiful, polished trophy wife. Her eyes were bloodshot, her dark mascara ran in jagged tracks down her pale skin, and her lips were cracked. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a sudden, ferocious fire ignited in her chest.
I took the second test. Then I took the digital one I’d stuffed in the side pocket.
Within two minutes, the small digital screen blinked and flashed one word:
**PREGNANT (3+ WEEKS)**
A hysterical laugh ripped out of my throat, turning immediately into a choked sob.
For three agonizing years, Dante had watched me cry over negative tests. He had brought me tea, kissed my forehead, and told me to let it go. And now, on the exact night our marriage died on the floor of his corner office, a miracle had taken root inside my body.
*Or was it a miracle?*
A dark, icy thought slithered into my mind. Why had Dante been so quick to accept the doctor's diagnosis three years ago? Why had he adamantly refused to let me seek a second opinion in New York or Boston, insisting that the stress would only destroy my mental health?
I looked down at the tests, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I needed to know the truth. Not Dante’s truth. Not the version filtered through his PR team or his payroll doctors.
I pulled out my phone, switched off airplane mode, and instantly received twenty-seven missed calls and eighteen text messages—all from Dante.
*Elena, open the door. The penthouse is empty.*
*Where are you? I’m going out of my mind.*
*Sofia means nothing. It was an ambush, please, Elena, let me see you.*
*Call me. If you won't talk to me, I'll have the police track your phone.*
I ignored every single one. Instead, I dialed a number I had kept memorized for years: Dr. Miriam Harris, my former college roommate and one of the lead OB/GYNs at Chicago Northwestern Memorial.
"Miriam?" I said, my voice cracking the second she picked up.
"Elena? My God, you sound awful. What’s wrong?"
"I need an emergency scan. Off the record. No Moretti connections, no private hospital accounts. Right now."
May you like
Miriam went dead silent on the line. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to a brisk, professional whisper. "Come to the private clinic on North Clark Street. The rear entrance. I’m on call tonight. I'll be waiting."
***
