Chapter 3 The Delay

Aurora did not sleep that night.

She lay in bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the ceiling while her mind ran through the possibilities, one after another. She was never irregular. Not once. Her body had always been like clockwork.

So why was she almost two weeks late?

What could be the odds?

She rolled onto her side, staring at her tiny alarm clock. 3:47 a.m. The city outside her window had settled into its stillness, but inside her chest, chaos stormed.

No, It probably could be stress, work, life or the dinner party. I have not been eating right anyways.

Hormonal imbalance, lack of sleep, or just anything at all.

She repeated the thoughts like a mantra, forcing herself to believe them. But something inside her already knew. There was a whisper she could not silence, a storm she could not calm.

The next morning, Aurora left home early. Her mother barely noticed, preoccupied with sorting a basket of worn laundry. Her father had taken his medication and gone back to sleep.

She told them she had to be at work early for a report.

She lied.

Instead, she stood in front of a tiny pharmacy two streets away from the bus stop, heart pounding, her coat wrapped tightly around her like a shield. The cold morning breeze felt heavier than usual, but it was nothing compared to the weight in her chest.

The shelves inside the pharmacy were lined with everything from aspirin to overpriced lotions, but all she could see was the aisle labeled "Women's Health."

She stepped in quietly, trying not to draw attention. The pharmacist barely looked up.

Aurora grabbed the cheapest pregnancy test she could find and shoved it deep into her tote bag. She paid in cash. No receipt.

She did not go back home.

She could not.

So she went to work hours early and locked herself in the staff restroom on the top floor.

The building was still mostly empty. It was quiet enough to hear her heartbeat, which thudded in her ears like a war drum. Her hands trembled as she opened the package.

She stared at the white plastic stick like it was a weapon. Read the instructions twice. Took a breath.

And did it.

Two minutes passed.

That was the longest two minutes of her life.

Her palms were sweaty. Her throat was dry. She could not stop pacing in front of the mirror.

Then she looked.

Wiped her eyes and stared at it again.

And everything inside her went silent.

Two lines.

Bold. Unmistakable.

She dropped the test in the bin, buried it under tissue, and ran cold water over her hands.

No tears came.

Only numbness.

That afternoon, Damon passed her in the hallway again. He paused this time just for a second, but she did not meet his eyes. She could not.

Because now? Now she was carrying a part of him.

And he did not know.

And he could never know.

That was it.

Days passed, but Aurora barely felt them.

Her world had shrunk. It was no longer about deadlines or gossip or company dinners.

It was about the tiny life growing inside her.

A life that had no idea what kind of world it was coming into.

She worked in silence. She smiled when she had to. She answered emails, printed reports, and avoided Damon at all costs. Every time he walked by, she tensed, waiting for him to stop. To ask. To see.

But he never did.

He never cared.

She had no place in his world, and she knew it.

One week later, she sat in the back of a small clinic on the edge of town.

She had made the appointment secretly, used an old email, gave a false name. She could not take chances. Could not have anyone she knew finding out.

The nurse was kind. Too kind.

"Five weeks gone," she said with a smile. "Perfectly healthy."

Aurora nodded, holding the paper tightly in her hand. Her bloodwork. Her due date.

She was not imagining it anymore.

It was real.

It was happening.

Back at home, her mother noticed something.

"You've been tired lately," she said. "Your eyes look dull. Are you getting sick?"

Aurora faked a yawn. "Just working late. I'm fine."

She could not bring herself to tell them.

Not yet.

The next day at the office, she dropped a file off in Damon's office. He was on a call but nodded at her in acknowledgment. She placed the folder gently on his desk.

But as she turned to leave, he held up one finger.

Then, still speaking into the phone, he wrote something on a sticky note and slid it toward her:

"Stay."

Her heart skipped.

She stood in silence until he hung up.

"I wanted to ask about the finance report," he said, but there was something else in his tone. Something quieter.

"You got it yesterday," she replied.

"I know. But I did not read it."

She looked at him carefully. "Is that all, sir?"

He did not answer right away.

Then he said, "Are you okay, Aurora?"

Her breath caught. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem... different. Faded."

She straightened her spine. "I'm just tired."

He did not believe her. She could see it in the way his brow furrowed, the way his fingers tapped lightly on the desk.

But he let her go.

That night, Aurora sat alone in her room.

She pulled out her notebook, the one she used to write poetry in when she was younger, and flipped to a blank page.

She wrote:

He doesn't know and I don't know if I want him to know,

But I know I can't hide it forever.

She pressed her forehead to the paper, breathing slowly.

She had to make a fast decision.

The next morning, she walked into HR and handed in her resignation letter.