His Virgin Stripper

17

I was sitting at my desk, going over notes from Professor Cynadome's last lesson, when a sharp, sudden pain shot through my stomach.

"Ah!" I gasped, clutching my belly.

At first, I thought it was just the baby moving too much, but the pain came again like it was stabbing me, making me double over. My vision blurred.

"Shit... shit..." I whispered, panic rising.

I tried to call Mom, tried to stand, but the pain doubled. It wasn't normal.

"Baby... please," I whispered, my hands shaking, pressing against my stomach as another wave of pain hit.

I ran, or tried to, toward the living room, but I couldn't. I collapsed on the couch, gasping, sweat forming on my forehead. Everything spun.

"Someone... help..." my voice cracked.

I wasn't supposed to be in labor yet. Almost 8 months, not full term. Not ready. Not safe.

Panic hit me like ice water. Ang baby ko... my baby... I hadn't even prepared.

Then everything went fast. The contractions came back-to-back, relentless. I grabbed the phone, trembling. "Mom! Dad! HELP!"

The line was busy. Of course. It always was.

I curled on the couch, sobbing, shaking, feeling helpless. My hands moved instinctively, trying to protect the baby even though I didn't know how.

"Don't... don't leave me... please," I whispered.

I thought of Elijah. I thought of the life I wanted to give my baby. I thought of Celestine, locked in her room, probably helpless herself. I was alone, and I hated it.

Finally, a servant burst in, alarmed by my screams. "Miss! What happened?"

I couldn't even speak. I just shook my head, tears streaming down my face.

They rushed me to the car. I gripped the seat, clenching my hands around the edges. Every bump made me wince.

Inside, I felt the tiny life leaving me too early, too small, too fragile. I whispered prayers under my breath, asking whoever was listening to keep the baby alive.

When we arrived at the hospital, doctors rushed in. I felt like I was floating, not fully there. Machines, voices, lights, hands moving too quickly.

Somehow, someone handed me a tiny bundle. I didn't even know how.

It was... so small. Fragile. Premature..

Tears fell down my face uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry..." I whispered. "I'll... I'll do better. I promise."

I sat there, my arms trembling, staring at the tiny bundle in my lap. The baby was so small, I thought it might slip through my fingers. His chest rose and fell in the most fragile rhythm I had ever seen.

A nurse gently took him from me, murmuring something about monitoring in the NICU. I wanted to protest, to grab him back, but my body still ached from the labor.

I woke up.

Mom appeared in the doorway. Her face was calm. Cold.

"Sit down," she said softly, but there was no warmth in her voice.

I clutched the blanket tighter, my eyes fixed on her. "Where... where is he?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Mom didn't answer immediately. She came closer, carefully placing a hand on my shoulder, not comforting, just... holding me in place.

"Celestine," she said finally, "you did well. But this is not something you can handle alone."

I felt my chest tighten. "I... I can do it. Please... I just want to see him—"

"No," she interrupted, her tone sharp now. "Not yet. He's too fragile. You will endanger him if you try anything. Trust me."

I wanted to scream. Ang baby ko, my baby, and she was treating him like some object I couldn't touch. I wanted to throw myself at him, hold him against my chest, never let him go.

I pressed my face into the blanket I still held, hiding my tears. "I just... I want him safe."

Mom sighed, almost like it was an inconvenience. "He will be safe. That's all that matters. Rest now. You need strength."

I felt anger bubble up, sharp and bitter. Not at Mom. Not exactly. At the world that had put me here. At this cruel timing. At myself for not being able to protect him.

And yet... as my hands unconsciously stroked the soft fabric of the blanket, I whispered again, softly, almost to the baby alone, "I'll be back. I promise... I won't leave you."

Even if no one else understood, even if I had to stay silent and pretend, even if Elijah was still far away, I had one purpose now.

To keep him alive.

And to see him grow.

I woke up the next morning in a hospital bed, my body stiff and sore, every muscle aching from the labor. The room was quiet, too quiet.

My eyes went to the door. I wanted to see him. My baby. But Mom was already there, sitting in the chair across from me, arms crossed.

"Ah, you're awake," she said, her tone soft but cold.

I tried to sit up, weakly. "Where... where is he?" My voice trembled, panic rising again.

Mom shook her head slowly. "You will not see him. Not until I say so."

My stomach dropped. "What... what do you mean? He's my son!"

"You are still recovering," she said, flatly. "And even when you're better, you will only see him if you follow the rules."

I pressed my hands against the sheets, fighting the tears that always seemed so close these days. "Rules? What rules?"

Her eyes hardened. "You will finish your veterinary studies first. Every requirement, every exam. Only then will you be allowed near him."

I blinked, shocked. Ang tindi. My baby, a baby born premature, and she was using him as a leash. "Pero... pero that's not fair! He... he's my child!"

"Life isn't fair," she said calmly. "You want him alive? You obey. That is all."

I swallowed hard, trying not to cry. My heart ached, physically, as if it were breaking in two.

Then, a faint voice spoke from the doorway. Her husband. He looked at both of us, calm, but with a weight behind his words that made Mom tense slightly.

"Leave her be," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "She will see her son, but only on my condition. She finishes her studies first. Until then, no interference."

Mom's face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. I felt her anger radiate like heat, but she didn't argue.

I let out a shaky breath, relief and frustration crashing together in my chest. My son was alive. Alive. I could see him one day, finally.

I pressed my hands to my stomach, imagining him, tiny and fragile, and whispered, almost to myself, "Kaya ko ito... I'll finish. For you. Para sa'yo lang."

The tears I had been holding back finally came, warm and heavy, running down my cheeks. I cried for the unfairness, for the helplessness, and for the tiny life I already loved more than anything in the world.