Well and Truly Fucked

A Negative Plus a Negative Is a Positive, Probably

I slumped to the floor, wrapping myself in a towel as I stared at the tests laid out on the tiles—all very positive. The reality of the situation hit me like a sledgehammer. I was so screwed. Like, well and truly fucked.

Pregnant. Really fucking pregnant. I'd officially done what everyone expected since middle school: gotten knocked up from a one-night stand. I groaned, rubbing my face in disbelief.

Pulling myself together, I wrapped the tests in tissue, stuffing them at the very bottom of the bin. I almost laughed at the irony—Saint fucking Bishop. His name was a sick joke now, seeing as he had, indeed, gotten me very pregnant. My smile faded quickly as the weight of it all settled in.

If anyone found out, I was screwed. Saint hadn't spoken to me since that night, and he wasn't going to. He didn't need to know. He couldn't know. Not now. Not ever.

After stuffing the positive tests at the bottom of the bin and ensuring no traces of my discovery remained, I began scrambling to get ready. I needed to act like everything was normal, like I wasn't a mess of panic and fear.

I dashed to the bathroom, focusing on my hair and makeup. My hands moved quickly but carefully, trying to get everything perfect despite my racing thoughts. I glanced at the clock—damn, I was running late for school.

"Carlotta!" I called out, rushing down the stairs. "Can you get my clothes out? I'm running behind."

Carlotta, the maid, nodded and hurried off to my room. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I had a plan forming in my mind. I'd need to get one of those pills—whatever they were called—to flush out the baby. I couldn't afford to let this go any further. Not with my life, not with my reputation, and definitely not with Saint Bishop's.

As I finished my makeup and slipped into my clothes, I pushed the thought of the pregnancy out of my mind, determined to focus on the day ahead. But no matter how hard I tried, one thought kept circling my mind: out of all the stupid boys, all the jocks, it had to be Saint fucking Bishop's baby.

Saint. The one guy who was untouchable, who'd never even glanced my way since that night. How the hell did I end up in this mess? The irony stung.

I shoved the thoughts aside and forced myself to concentrate on getting through the day. But deep down, the realization that Saint Bishop was the father of my child loomed over me, casting a shadow on every step I took.

I paused at the classroom door, smoothing down my crop top and mini skirt, flicking my platinum hair behind my back. I adjusted my handbag, trying to steady my nerves before stepping into the classroom.

I was already fifteen minutes late, but the moment I saw who was sitting near the front, my heart sank. Saint Bishop. Of course, he'd be in my algebra class.

It felt like I'd been hit by a truck. I almost turned back, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. But there was no avoiding it. I took a deep breath, forced a casual stride into the room, and tried to ignore the pounding in my chest. Just get through the class, I told myself. Pretend nothing's wrong.

I settled into a seat in the back, trying to keep my gaze from wandering over to where Saint sat, his presence a constant reminder of the mess I was in.

Amber leaned over, her blue hair styled into two neat pigtails, her fitted tank top barely containing her curves as she whispered, "Where were you, babe? I was starting to worry."

I forced a casual smile, trying to keep my voice calm despite the turmoil inside. "Just up late with some stuff," I said, my tone light but distracted. I flicked a strand of hair from my face and shifted in my seat, trying to hide the tension in my shoulders.

Amber gave me a knowing look, her curiosity momentarily piqued, but she didn't press further. Instead, she flashed a quick smile and turned her attention back to the front of the room. I tried to do the same, but my thoughts kept drifting to Saint, sitting just a few rows ahead. The weight of my secret felt heavier with every passing moment.

From my seat in the back, I couldn't help but steal glances at Saint Bishop. He sat near the front, a striking figure against the classroom's bright backdrop. His hair was a smooth, sun-kissed blonde, perfectly styled and immaculately groomed. His face was clean-shaven, showcasing his strong jawline and high cheekbones.

Saint wore a fitted white T-shirt that clung to his well-defined muscles, accentuating every contour of his chest and arms. The fabric was snug enough to highlight his physique, and he wore it with an air of effortless confidence. He was seated with a relaxed posture, leaning slightly back in his chair, his casual demeanor contrasting with the intensity in his eyes.

The slight gleam of his watch caught the light with each subtle movement. Even from my position, the magnetic pull of his presence was undeniable. Each time I dared to look his way, the memory of our night together loomed heavily in my mind, reminding me of the complicated reality I now faced.

As I continued to stare, Saint's head turned slightly, and our eyes met for a fleeting moment. His piercing blue eyes locked with mine, holding a brief intensity before he looked away, as if bored or uninterested. The disinterest in his gaze stung, and I quickly turned my head, feeling a flush of embarrassment and a tightening knot of anxiety in my stomach.