Well and Truly Fucked

Worth the wait

I slipped in through the back door of my house, holding my breath as I closed it behind me with a soft click. The house was dark, only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. I paused for a moment, listening carefully to make sure no one had heard me come in.

Once I was sure it was safe, I crept up the stairs, one slow step at a time, cringing as they creaked under my weight. My heart pounded in my chest, but the house remained quiet. I reached the top and slunk down the hallway to my room, pushing open the door and slipping inside.

As soon as I closed it, the tension in my body released. I leaned against the door for a moment, exhaling deeply. The night had left me feeling drained—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I peeled off my tight crop top and miniskirt, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. My reflection in the mirror caught my eye as I stood in my underwear, and for a second, I looked at my stomach. The slight curve was there, undeniable now, even after throwing up earlier. The thought of what it meant made my throat tighten.

Shaking my head, I turned away and pulled on an oversized t-shirt, crawling into bed. The sheets were cool against my skin, and I curled into them, pulling them tight around my body as if they could protect me from the reality creeping in.

The exhaustion hit me all at once, my eyelids heavy as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling. I was too drunk, too tired, and too emotionally spent to think anymore. The weight of everything—the pregnancy, Saint, the uncertainty of what came next—it could wait until morning.

For now, I just needed to sleep.

Within minutes, my breathing slowed, and I drifted off, sinking into the temporary escape of unconsciousness, my mind shutting down as the world outside continued without me.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I felt was a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. My eyes flew open, the light filtering in through the curtains stinging my still-aching head. I barely had time to register the pounding hangover before my body forced me into action.

I scrambled out of bed, tripping over the discarded clothes on the floor as I dashed for the bathroom. The door slammed behind me as I collapsed in front of the toilet, retching violently. My stomach twisted painfully as I emptied what little was left from the night before, my entire body shaking.

When the nausea finally subsided, I sat back on the cold bathroom tiles, my chest heaving as I wiped my  mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of bile clung to my tongue, and I felt weak, shaky, and utterly miserable.

I pulled herself up to the sink, splashing cold water on my face and staring at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was pale, and my eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles smudged underneath them. I looked like hell.

But it wasn't just the hangover. I knew that. The nausea, the vomiting, the weight gain—it was all starting to make sense.

My eyes dropped to my stomach again. The small curve was still there, more pronounced in the harsh morning light. I couldn't deny it anymore.

"Shit..." I whispered, gripping the edge of the sink.

It was real. This was real.

Saint Bishop's baby.

I swallowed hard, pushing back the rising tide of panic. What the hell was I going to do now?

I arrived late to school, my head still spinning from the rough morning. My chauffeur, always punctual and silent, pulled up to the entrance, and I slipped out of the car, trying to ignore the lingering nausea. My stomach was still unsettled, the thought of food only making it worse. I smoothed my hair down and straightened my oversized sunglasses, feeling the weight of my secret pressing on me, suffocating.