– Office Whispers

“Where’d you disappear to Friday night?” Marla asked, leaning over my cubicle wall with her third espresso.

“Home. Migraine.” I didn’t look up from my screen.

“Uh-huh.” She waggled her brows. “Because someone said they saw you dancing with Andrew Drake. And by dancing, I mean… hands. Bodies. Prolonged eye contact.”

I clicked aggressively into the zoning variance spreadsheet. “That someone needs glasses.”

Across the atrium, Andrew stood by the espresso bar, chatting with two interns. He kissed one on the hand. The other giggled like it was a Jane Austen adaptation. I hated how his sleeves were rolled perfectly. I hated how I noticed.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a column to design?”

Marla snorted. “Fine, fine. But if he proposes during the structural review meeting, I’m calling dibs on your office.”

She disappeared just as fast. I exhaled and leaned back, suddenly dizzy. Lines on the screen swam. My stomach turned.

I shut my laptop and stood.

I told myself it was probably nothing—too many late nights and lattes, nothing a weekend of sleep couldn’t fix.

One month later, the dizziness hadn’t eased; it had multiplied, pinwheeling every time I stood.

At the corner bodega, I bought ginger ale, saltines, and—because I was apparently starring in a teen drama—three pregnancy tests. I told myself it was just stress. Hormones. Delayed cycle. Work deadlines. Not tequila and cedar and Andrew’s hand on my waist as I sang Bon Jovi like a drunk idiot.

Back home, I paced the bathroom like it might change the results. The test strip lay on the counter like a loaded weapon.

Three minutes.

I turned on the fan. I counted ceiling tiles. I avoided looking.

I looked.

One line. Faint second.

No.

I tried the second test.

Pink.

Third test.

Double lines.

I sat on the floor, tile cold against my spine, staring at the evidence lined up like little tombstones of sanity.

Somewhere in my apartment, my phone buzzed.

A text from Claire:

**“Did you survive Friday? Also, what was up with you and Andrew? ?”**

I turned the screen face-down.

At work tomorrow, people would still talk about karaoke. About interns and cronuts. About office romances and hallway whispers.

But I would know something they didn’t.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. Nothing. Just silence.

Just the quietest, scariest maybe of my life.

– Double Lines and Doubts

Mercy Hospital’s waiting room smelled like lemon cleaner and unspoken dread.

I kept my head down, hoodie up, sunglasses on despite the fluorescent lights. No one here knew me. No one had to.

Except him.

Andrew Drake.

I froze mid-step.

He strolled through the double doors like a VIP guest star—pressed shirt, hand resting on the lower back of a tall brunette in stilettos. They were laughing. Her hand lingered on his chest like it belonged there.

My stomach twisted harder than morning sickness ever could.

I turned away, heart hammering. The appointment card in my purse cut into my fingers. Room 207. Ultrasound.

I didn’t move.

I stared at the wall clock for thirty full seconds, then bolted.

Outside, the sun was too bright, the sky too blue. I walked. Fast. No direction, just away. My flats blistered my heels before I even crossed the third block, but I didn’t stop.

Not until I reached the riverwalk.

There, I ripped the appointment card in half, then in half again, until the pieces were tiny and pitiful and shaking in my hand.

He had someone.

Of course he did.

Why wouldn’t he?

He was Andrew Drake—architect prodigy, media darling, professional charmer.

I was Fiona Hayes. Checklist girl. Oops.

A seagull shrieked above. I wished I could.

When I finally dragged myself home, I collapsed on the couch and Googled “how to be a single mom” like it was just another project brief.

Budget calculators. Morning workout videos with smiling women. A forum thread titled *‘How to tell your ex he’s not the father if he’s already someone else’s boyfriend.’*

I shut the laptop.

Stared at the ceiling.

Listened to my heartbeat thudding like a metronome out of sync.

The shredded appointment slip still poked out of my coat pocket.

I left it there.

Like a reminder.

Like a wound.