Billionaires Dollar Series

“The organic, natural, herbal remedy sleeping aids, yeah.”

“Surprisingly well,” I say. “I’ve been sleeping much better these past two months, and much deeper.”

“Yes.” Wilma makes the universal sign for success, an elbow tugged downwards, and shoots Trina and me a victorious look. “Another win for ‘untested and scientifically dubious medicine.'”

“It worked this time, yeah,” I allow. “But I do feel very hormonal. That’s not a side effect, is it? Like, my breasts are tender all the time. And while I usually get nauseous sometimes around my period, it’s never been this bad before.”

Wilma frowns. “They’re not supposed to affect that side of things,” she says. “Sure you’re not just about to have your period?”

“No, I had… actually, I don’t know when I last had my period.” It feels like a long time ago. Longer than it should have been, longer than it usually feels like.

“Bella,” Trina says carefully, “you don’t think you could be pregnant?”

“No, of course not,” I say. “I’m on birth control. I take it every morning, like clockwork. I’m like Toast with his food. Never miss a day.”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“Good, because that’s not what you need right now.”

“Definitely not. It’s probably nothing,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. “I’ll sort it out.”

And that’s that. It’s not until later, when they’ve left and I start mentally calculating the days, that I realize my period isn’t just fashionably late. It’s the kind of late that would be downright rude to the host.

I’m not always very regular, but has it ever been this late before? And once the idea takes root, it’s impossible to get out-like when you leave the house and can’t remember if you’ve turned off the curling iron or not. The thought of pregnancy niggles away in my brain until I can’t focus on anything at all.

“I’ll just get one little test,” I tell Toast, grabbing my car keys. “Just one little test. It’ll be negative, and then I can stop worrying.”

I get in my trusty little car with its new battery and pray it’ll start. It hasn’t given me grief this summer after I visited the mechanic, but of course this would be the day it acts up.

Not today, I repeat. Not today of all days. And my Honda hears me, or perhaps Wilma is right and the universe does listen to your wishes, because I back out of my driveway without any trouble.

No, the trouble starts when I drive down the quiet street and meet an achingly familiar Jeep. I slow my car to a crawl, and amazingly… so does he.

Two windows roll down. One by the driver’s seat, revealing Ethan with both hands clasped tightly on the wheel. There’s no smile on his face, his jaw tense.

The backseat reveals the cutest little six-year-old ever to live, with two ribboned pigtails. “Bella!” Haven says. “Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around, sweetie,” I say, refusing to look at her father. “I’ve been very busy.”

“Can you come over later? I’m going to a birthday party and I want braids, but Daddy can’t do braids, and Maria isn’t home tonight.”

It takes everything I am to shake my head. Thankfully, Ethan spares me from answering. “Bella is busy tonight, too,” he says. “She has school, you know. She needs to study.”

Haven’s face falls, and she shoots her father a glare. He can’t see it, but judging by its potency, I’m sure he can feel it through the seat.

“That’s right,” I agree. “But I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

It’s a lie, because I’m not sure at all, not judging from the way her father is frowning. He looks over at me, and for the first time, our gazes lock.

His brow is furrowed, his eyes narrowed with conflicting emotion. I can’t tell if he misses me or wants to strangle me. Or himself. Or us both.

“Ethan,” I murmur.

He shakes his head. “We can talk later,” he says, rolling up their windows. I lift my foot off the brake and like two ships in the night, our cars start moving again. Haven waves cheerily from the backseat and I wave back.

I manage to keep my composure for roughly five more seconds before my eyes well up, and by the time I park outside the pharmacy, I have to give myself a few minutes before I can go inside.

I can’t possibly be pregnant. This can’t be happening, because if I am… there’s no way Ethan will ever look at me softly again.

When I return to my oversized, over-empty mansion, Toast greets me by the door. He winds his way in between my legs and gives a soulful meow. I glance down at my watch, but it’s not mealtime yet.

I scratch him under the chin, sniffling. “Thank you,” I tell him. “You’re a lot of work, but I like you.”

He butts his head against my leg one last time. You’re welcome. I imagine him saying. But don’t get used to it.

I don’t make it further than the guest bathroom on the first floor. There, under the soft lighting from directional spotlights, I’m faced with the truth.

I’m pregnant.

At least if the four different pregnancy tests I’ve bought and taken are to be trusted, and considering there’s four of them… I can’t rationalize it away.

Pregnant.

How? Had my birth control pills expired? I race up the stairs to my bedroom, as if solving this problem might somehow solve the other one, the one involving unexpected motherhood.

My hands shake as I look on the back of my birth control pills. Finding the expiration date and… no. They’re not expired. Not even close.

What’s happened? How have they failed?

My gaze snags on the green bottle of sleeping aids that Wilma had given me. A bunch of leafy herbs are pictured on the front.

Still trembling, I reach out and grab the bottle. Pills rattle inside. I scan the back… St John’s Wort, chamomile, ginger. And below, in the tiniest font known to man.

Should NOT be taken in conjunction with hormone-based birth control.

I sink down onto my larger-than-life bed, in my larger-than-life house with my larger-than-life problem.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.

And it’s a fucking herb’s fault.

Which isn’t comforting at all, because it’s not really true. It’s my fault for not reading. For not researching. For assuring Ethan that I was on birth control and had the situation handled when I didn’t.

My stomach sinks with the realization that he’s not going to handle this well. He’s not going to believe me, not after knowing how Lyra had trapped him. And combined with my previous lie… What will he think of me?

My stomach drops out from under me entirely, and I race to the bathroom, violently ill for the first time during this pregnancy.

It won’t be the last.

The knowledge is irrevocable. It weighs on my mind every second of every hour, pulling me from sleep, from rest, from study. I spend that night staring up at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the unexpected.