Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 48: It’s Real

Sarah

Three minutes.

One hundred and eighty seconds.

My mind wanders to Matthew. What would a baby mean for us now?

I glance at my phone. One minute left.

My thoughts race ahead, imagining a positive result. Would Matthew be happy? Scared? Angry?

I picture his face—those crinkles around his eyes when he laughs, the serious furrow between his brows when he’s thinking hard about something. Would our baby have his eyes, his dimples?

I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly protective of something that might not even exist. There’s a part of me—a part I’m almost afraid to acknowledge—that wants this test to be positive. Not just for what it might mean for Matthew and me, but for itself. A baby. Our baby. A tiny person made from the best parts of us.

My phone alarm shrieks, making me jump. Three minutes are up.

I stand on wobbly legs, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips as I reach for the test. For a moment, I close my eyes, offering a silent prayer to a God I’m not sure I believe in. Then I look down.

Two pink lines. Clear and unambiguous.

I’m pregnant.

I stare at the lines, expecting them to fade or change or reveal themselves as a trick of the light. But they remain stubbornly present, two small strokes of color that have just rewritten my future.

I sink back down onto the edge of the tub, the test clutched in my hand. Two pink lines. A life growing inside me. Matthew’s and mine.

I set the test back on the counter and stand, catching my reflection in the mirror.

Tonight, I’ll have to tell him. I’ll have to find the words to say that despite our uncertain present, our future has just become very certain indeed.

My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat beneath my sweater. "It’s going to be okay," I whisper, not sure if I’m reassuring the barely-there baby or myself.

But even as anxiety churns inside me, there’s something else taking root alongside it. Something that feels almost like hope. Maybe, just maybe, these two pink lines are drawing us back together, creating a new path where our old one faded away.

Tears well up unexpectedly, spilling over before I even realize I’m crying. They’re not sad tears, exactly, but they’re not purely happy either. They’re complicated tears for a complicated moment.

"A baby," I say out loud, testing how the words feel in my mouth. "I’m having a baby."

A sudden, fierce joy surges through me, catching me off guard with its intensity.

Matthew. I have to tell Matthew. The thought sends a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over me.

The thought of Matthew rejecting us makes my chest ache with a physical pain.

No, I shouldn’t assume and just go tell him.

I push myself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it bracing. I need to pull myself together.

I walk barefoot down the hallway toward the home office.

Matthew is there. I can hear the soft tap-tap-tap of his fingers on the keyboard, the occasional click of his mouse.

I pause outside, hand raised to push the door wider, and almost turn back. I almost convinced myself that today isn’t the day, that tomorrow would be better, that maybe if I just wait long enough, everything will magically fix itself without either of us having to say the hard things out loud.

No, that’s stupid.

I push the door open.

Matthew sits with his back to me, headphones covering his ears, shoulders hunched slightly forward as he stares at his screen.

For a moment, I just watch him. The familiar shape of him. The way his right foot taps silently against the floor when he’s concentrating.

I love him. That’s the worst part of all this. I love him so much.

My throat tightens again, threatening new tears. I swallow them back. No more crying. Not yet, anyway.

I move forward until I’m standing just behind his chair. Close enough to touch him, though I keep my hands at my sides. Close enough to smell the faint scent of his shampoo and the coffee he must have made while I was falling apart in the bathroom.

My heart hammers against my ribs. My mouth has gone dry, tongue sticking to the roof as I try to form words.

I clear my throat.

Nothing. He doesn’t hear me.

I clear it again, louder this time and reach out to lightly touch his shoulder.

He startles, jerking in his chair before pulling his headphones down around his neck. When he swivels to face me, his expression shifts from surprise to something more guarded when he sees my face—my obvious post-crying face.

"Sarah?" His voice is careful, neutral. Walking on eggshells. "I didn’t hear you come in."

My prepared speech evaporates. All the things I rehearsed in the bathroom mirror—the calm, reasoned points I was going to make—gone like smoke.

Instead, what comes out is simple. Raw. Terrifying.

"We need to talk." My voice shakes, but I get the words out.

Matthew looks at me for a long moment. "What is it?"

"I...I felt sick this morning," I say hesitantly.

He blinks, his expression shifting slightly. "Sick?" His gaze sharpens with concern.

I nod, but it’s a reflex more than a real answer. "I took a test," I whisper.

Matthew straightens in his chair, his foot—still tapping moments ago—now utterly still. "A test," he repeats slowly. "What kind of test?"

I can’t breathe. My fingers tighten into fists at my sides as I force myself to say it. "I’m pregnant."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Matthew doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just stares at me, his expression unreadable.

I don’t know what I expected. A sharp inhale? A curse? A question? But instead, he just sits there, frozen in time, as if the words haven’t quite reached him yet.

"Say something," I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound.

His jaw tenses. "You’re sure?"

I nod and hand him over the pregnancy test.

He looks down at it and scoffs. "Wow..." he says.

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees as Matthew stares at the test in his hand. His face shifts from shock to something darker—something I’ve never seen before.

"Wow," he says again, but this time with a bitter edge that makes me step back. "That’s quite convenient, isn’t it?"

"Convenient?" I repeat, the word feeling strange in my mouth. "What are you talking about?"

He stands suddenly, the chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a thud that makes me flinch. His eyes are cold, calculating as they sweep over me.

"I find it interesting," he says, his voice eerily calm, "that after trapping me into marriage, suddenly there’s a baby." He holds up the test between two fingers like it’s contaminated.

"You think I’m lying?" My voice comes out as a whisper, disbelief stealing my volume.

"And why wouldn’t I, Sarah?" He places the test on his desk with deliberate care. "You have lied about it before."

The air is sucked from my lungs. The memory crashes over me like a wave, drowning me in shame and anger.

"I was young and stupid then. I would never do that again," I whisper, my voice breaking.

Matthew runs a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. "And I am supposed to just believe you?"

I stagger back a step, like he’s physically shoved me. "I’m your wife, Matthew!" My voice cracks, but I don’t care. "I won’t lie about it now."

Matthew lets out a bitter laugh. "Alright then. You are pregnant. But how do I know it’s mine?"

The words hit me like a slap. My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t process them at first.

I want to scream at him, tell him how hurtful that is, how wrong.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My chest feels tight, like it’s suffocating me, and my eyes sting with the beginning of tears, but I fight them back.

I want to run, to disappear into the air, but I can’t. I can’t leave him like this, not now.

"Matthew..." I start, my voice shaky, small. "I don’t know what you want me to say." I swallow thickly, trying to steady myself. "You are the only one I’ve been with. This...this baby is yours. It’s yours, Matthew."

He doesn’t look at me. He stares straight ahead, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Finally, he speaks, his voice so low it almost sounds like a growl. "I don’t know what to think anymore." He lets out a bitter laugh, but it’s devoid of humor. "A baby?"

"Our baby," I breathe. "And I am not lying this time. It’s real."