My head spun, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes. "No," I croaked, the word barely a whisper, an admission of defeat. I felt anything but good. My body was wrung out, weak and trembling. Aria’s hand on my back was a lifeline, grounding me. She didn’t push, just kept rubbing, those soothing circles a silent comfort.
Eventually, I gained enough strength to flush, then slowly, carefully, pushed myself back, leaning against the cool tiles of the wall. I looked up at Aria, her face a mask of gentle concern.
"Probably food poisoning," I muttered, rinsing my mouth at the sink. My reflection looked pale, my eyes too wide. "Or maybe I’m just exhausted. It’s nothing. Probably a stomach bug."
Aria leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Uh-huh. Nothing. That’s why you look like you nearly fainted when you entered the kitchen, and now you’re puking up dinner like a freshman on tequila night."
"It’s not like it’s been happening all day," I muttered.
Her eyes narrowed. "Wait. All day?"
Heat rushed to my face. I opened my mouth, then shut it, then sighed. "Fine. It happened earlier. Once or twice."
"Once or twice," she repeated, skepticism dripping from her tone.
"...Five," I admitted in a whisper. "Five times."
Aria’s jaw dropped. "Isabella Miller." She crossed her arms tighter, eyes wide. "You’re telling me you’ve been dizzy and nauseous five times today, and you thought that was normal?"
I shoved my face into my knees. "I thought it was stress. Or the salad dressing. Or motion sickness. Or—"
"Or you’re pregnant."
Her words cut through the air like a slap. My head snapped up, heat rushing into my face. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Aria’s eyes gleamed, part mischief, part sharp suspicion. "Classic symptoms. Dizzy, nauseous, can’t keep food down, moody as hell—"
"I’m not moody," I snapped.
She arched one brow.
"Fine, maybe a little," I admitted. "But I promise, it’s not—it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’m just tired, or maybe Dad undercooked the chicken."
Her brow arched. "Please. Your dad is Gordon Ramsay compared to the rest of us. Try again."
I opened my mouth, then shut it, heat creeping up my neck. Aria was still watching me, sharp-eyed, too sharp.
"This isn’t what you think," I muttered. "It can’t be."
But even as I said it, flashes of Adrien slammed into me—his body caging mine against the wall, his voice rough in my ear, the different, consuming ways he moved inside me until I forgot my own name. How many nights had been like that? How many times had we been reckless, too lost in each other to care about anything else?
"Humor me. When was your last period?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and sudden, like a physical weight. My mind fumbled for an answer. "My..." My voice trailed off. I tried to recall, truly tried, but the days blurred into weeks, work deadlines overshadowing everything else. "I... I don’t know. I’ve been so swamped with work, I haven’t even thought about it."
"Okay. Think. Just roughly. Is it late?"
A cold dread began to seep into my bones, replacing the lingering nausea. I did the math, my mind a frantic, clumsy calculator. The dates spun, clicked, and then landed with a sickening thud. I was late. Nearly three weeks or so. How had I not noticed? Life had been a blur of work deadlines, late nights with Adrien, and afternoons in his office or his place, and family chaos.
"Oh, God," I breathed, staring at a smudge on the bathroom tiles, my heart beginning to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Oh, God, Aria..."
Aria knelt beside me, her expression softening even further. "Hey. Just breathe, okay? Let’s not jump to conclusions." But her hand found mine, squeezing it tight, a silent promise of support that spoke volumes.
Then, she leaned in, lowering her voice like we were plotting espionage. "But, there’s only one way to know for sure."
My stomach dropped for a completely different reason. "Aria, no."
"Yes."
"No."
"Bella." She grabbed my hands that slipped out of hers, her grin wicked but her eyes gentle. "We’re getting you a test."
I opened my mouth to protest again but closed it with a sigh. Because beneath the horror and embarrassment, a spark of fear—terrifying and undeniable—was already rooting itself in my chest.
Aria squeezed my hand, softer this time. "We’ll do it together. No one has to know yet. Just us."
*****
Aria had disappeared after dinner with nothing more than a muttered excuse about "needing air." By the time she slipped back into my room, her grin was stretched so wide I immediately narrowed my eyes.
"What did you do?" I whispered, half dreading the answer.
She lifted a little pharmacy bag like it was treasure. "Got the goods."
My stomach sank. "Aria..."
"Nope." She tossed it on the bed and crossed her arms. "We’re doing this now."
And somehow—half protesting, half trembling—I found myself sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the little stick in my hand while Aria paced like she was waiting for a jury verdict. Neither of us spoke. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to grow louder, each second stretching into an eternity.
The two minutes stretched into forever. My heart hammered so loud I thought it might drown out the silence.
When the lines appeared, clear and undeniable, the world tilted.
Two pink lines.
One was dark and defiant. The other was fainter, a shy, blushing ghost of a line, but it was unmistakably there. Positive.
I set the test down like it had burned me. My throat tightened, chest heavy, vision blurring. "Oh my God."
Aria stopped pacing. She looked at the test, then at me, and her face broke into a mix of shock and giddy delight. "You’re pregnant."
"I—no. This can’t be real." My voice cracked. "It’s... it’s wrong."
"Okay, let’s do it again." Aria snatched up the test, scrutinizing it as if it might magically change. "These things can be faulty, right? People get false positives. Let’s just... let’s do another one. We got a two-pack, remember?"
My mind was a static-filled television screen, words and images flashing but making no sense. Two pink lines. Positive. The words echoed, each syllable a hammer blow to my fragile composure. "Aria, it’s not going to change," I whispered, my voice thin, reedy. My body felt numb, yet every nerve ending was screaming.
"Humor me," she insisted, already tearing open the second foil packet. Her movements were brisk, practical, a stark contrast to the earthquake happening inside me. She pressed the new stick into my trembling hand. "Just... do it. For sanity’s sake. For your sanity, and for mine."
I obeyed automatically, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an unseen force. The cold plastic felt alien against my skin. Flushing, performing the exact same steps, felt like a cruel re-enactment.