50 shades freed

Chapter 20

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 20

I gape at Dr. Greene, my world collapsing around me. A baby. A baby. I don't want a baby . . . not yet.

Fuck. And I know deep down that Harry is going to freak.

"Mr. Tomlinson-Styles, you're very pale. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Please." My voice is a barely audible. My mind is racing. Pregnant? When?

"I take it you're surprised."

I nod mutely at the good doctor as she hands me a glass of water from her conveniently placed water cooler. I take a welcome sip. "Shocked," I whisper.

"We could do an ultrasound to see how advanced the pregnancy is. Judging by your reaction, I suspect you're just a couple of weeks or so from conception—four or five weeks pregnant. I take it you haven't been suffering any other symptoms?"

I shake my head mutely. Symptoms? I don't think so. "I thought . . . I thought this was a reliable form of contraceptive."

Dr. Greene arches a brow. "It normally is, when you remember to have the shot," she says coolly. 

"I must have lost track of time." Harry is going to freak. I know it. "Have you been cramping at all?"

I frown. "No."

"That's normal for the Depo. Let's do an ultrasound shall we? I have time."

I nod, bewildered, and Dr. Greene directs me toward a black leather exam table behind a screen.

"If you'll just slip off your trousers, underwear, and cover yourself with the blanket on the table, we'll go from there," she says briskly.

Underwear? I was expecting an ultrasound scan over my belly. Why do I need to remove my panties? I shrug in consternation then quickly do as she says and lie down beneath the soft white blanket.

"That's good." Dr. Greene appears at the end of the table, pulling the ultrasound machine closer. It's a hi-tech stack of computers. Sitting down, she positions the screen so that we can both see it and jogs the trackball on the keyboard. The screen pings into life.

"If you could lift and bend your knees, then part them wide," she says matter-of-factly.

I frown warily.

"This is a transgenetical ultrasound. If you're only just pregnant, we should be able to find the baby with this." She holds up a long white probe.

Oh, you have got to be kidding!

"Okay," I mutter, mortified, and do as she says. Greene pulls a condom over the wand and lubricates it with clear gel.

"Mr. Tomlinson-Styles, if you could relax."

Relax? I'm pregnant, damn it! How do you expect me to relax? I blush, and endeavor to find my happy place . . . which has relocated somewhere near the lost Island of Atlantis.

Slowly and gently, she inserts the probe. Holy fuck!

All I can see on the screen is the visual equivalent of white noise—although it's more sepia in color. Slowly, Dr. Greene moves the probe about, and it's very disconcerting.

"There," she murmurs. She presses a button, freezing the picture on the screen, and points to a tiny blip in the sepia storm.

It's a little blip. There's a tiny little blip in my belly. Tiny. Wow. I forget my discomfort as I stare shell-shocked at the blip.