The apartment smelled like cheap paint, jasmine incense, and yesterday's burnt toast. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool rush of midnight air that mingled with the half-dry laundry strung across the living room.
It was too early for existential dread.
And yet, Sera Marlow stood there staring at her bathroom mirror like it had personally betrayed her. Shirt lifted. Her belly stared back at her.
"Nope. Not possible," she muttered, poking her lower belly with the gentleness of someone inspecting a suspicious package.
Flat. Normal. Maybe a little soft from too many late-night muffins, but not six-weeks-pregnant soft. No flutter. No heartbeat. No cosmic announcement of life blooming inside her.
Just… her.
And that damn letter.
It was still on the vanity table, crumpled. The paper practically hummed like it was waiting for her to read it again, to really see the words. To stop pretending it was a prank. Or a hallucination. Or a punishment for all the karma points she lost when she stole her roommate's last ramen cup.
A low growl slipped from her throat. This couldn't be happening. No, scratch that—this wasn't happening.
Sera pressed her fingers against her lower stomach, trying to feel something. Anything. A nudge. A flutter. A goddamn Morse code that said "Hi, Mom."
Nothing.
"Six weeks," She bit out. Her reflection didn't blink. She dropped her shirt and backed away, suddenly cold.
The letter rustled as if to say, Read me again, coward. And Sera did.
Ms. Marlow,
We regret to inform you of a procedural error during your previous visit to Bionex Fertility Center.
The embryo created using your donated eggs was mistakenly transferred into your uterus instead of the intended gestational carrier. According to our last checkup records, you are currently six weeks along.
We understand the gravity of this situation and are prepared to assist you in every possible way…
Sera rubbed at her temples, taking a deep breath. Her head was pounding. She read the paragraph again, slower this time.
Your uterus.
She nearly screamed.
The phone on the nightstand caught her eye. She snatched it, pulled up the website for Bionex Fertility Center and hit the contact number without thinking. Her thumb hovered over the "end call" button twice before someone picked up.
"Thank you for calling Bionex Fertility Center. This is Amber speaking. How can I assist you?" Her voice was calm. Too calm. Like she didn't even know she was about to blow someone's life up with the truth.
Sera pressed her fingers into her thighs and forced herself to count to three before she responded, "Hi. Uh. I need… I need to confirm something."
"Of course."
"My name's Sera Marlow. I donated eggs last December on the 12th. I got this… this letter today."
There was a pause on the line.
Sera kept going, "Some man…Evander something..came to my café this morning. Said I was pregnant. With his child. He said there was a mix-up at your clinic, and now I'm the gestational carrier or whatever you call it, and I'm just..." She drawled. "I need you to tell me it's not true."
The silence stretched. Amber was typing. Click-clack-click. Sera stared at her own reflection again. Her cheeks were flushed, hair in a frizz halo, eyes wide and exhausted.
Click-clack. Pause.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Marlow," Amber finally replied.
No.
"Unfortunately, your record does confirm a procedural mix-up during an embryo transfer on January 3rd. You were accidentally used as the gestational carrier for the embryo created between Mr. Ashford's sperms and your donated eggs."
The words didn't feel real. They sounded like something out of a courtroom drama.
Sera didn't know whether to scream or throw up. "How...how did this even happen?" she asked hoarsely. "How do you accidentally get someone pregnant with their own donated egg? Is this a joke? Is this some sick lawsuit bait?"
"I understand how this must feel. We are conducting a full investigation. Our legal team will be reaching out soon. And we are prepared to provide medical, psychological, and financial support should you choose to—"
Sera ended the call.
Her fingers were shaking. The phone slipped from her hands and landed face-down on the floor. She backed away from it like it might explode.
Six weeks. A baby. Hers. And his.
Her hands were on her belly again without thinking. Still nothing. Still no magic. But the truth was in her blood now, in her bones, in the thundering drumbeat in her ears.
She sat down numb on her vanity stool. This was her life now.
Sera Marlow: broke, coffee-slinging artist, accidental baby mama to the most terrifying billionaire she'd ever met.
What the hell was she going to do?