Ran Away From Him with His Baby

The sterile white walls of the abortion clinic waiting room seemed to close in around me as I stared at the clipboard in my hands. The form asked for basic information—name, date of birth, medical history—but my pen hovered motionless above the paper. This was the third clinic I'd visited in two weeks, and each time, I'd left before being called in.

I couldn't do it. Not today. Maybe not ever.

With trembling hands, I returned the clipboard to the receptionist and mumbled an excuse about needing more time to think. The sympathy in her eyes was almost unbearable as I fled into the gray afternoon.

Back in my apartment, I curled up on my sofa, open laptop balanced on my knees as I scrolled through yet another medical website explaining first-trimester procedures. The clinical language blurred before my eyes, replaced by an image I couldn't shake: a tiny being with Connor's steel-gray eyes and determined chin.

"What am I going to do with you?" I whispered, my hand drifting to my still-flat stomach.

The pregnancy test results had been confirmed by a doctor three days ago. Six weeks along. The timing aligned perfectly with that night at the hotel—the night Connor had been drugged, the night he'd stumbled into my room instead of his own, the night that had changed everything.

My phone pinged with a calendar reminder: "Decision deadline." I'd given myself until today to make a choice. I couldn't continue this limbo of scheduling appointments only to cancel them at the last minute. My window for a simpler procedure was closing, and with each passing day, the tiny life inside me grew more real.

I closed the laptop and set it aside, moving to stand before the small mirror hanging in my entryway. I lifted my blouse and turned sideways, examining my profile. No visible changes yet, but soon there would be. Soon everyone would know.

Connor would know.

The thought sent a wave of panic through me. How would he react? Would he believe me? Would he think I'd planned this somehow? The power imbalance between us was already overwhelming—how much worse would it be with a child involved?

I remembered his ruthless dismantling of Owen Fletcher's company after discovering he'd been drugged. Connor Ashford did not forgive, and he did not forget. What would he do to me if he thought I was trying to trap him with a pregnancy?

But this baby—our baby—deserved a chance at life. It wasn't responsible for the circumstances of its creation.

"We'll figure this out," I promised my reflection, decision crystallizing in my heart. "Just you and me."

---

The resignation letter felt heavy in my hands as I rode the elevator to the executive floor of Ashford Industries the next morning. I'd spent half the night drafting and redrafting it, trying to strike the right balance between professional courtesy and personal privacy.

*Due to unforeseen personal circumstances, I must tender my resignation effective immediately...*

No explanation, no details, just a clean break. Two years of dedicated service ended with a single page of carefully worded corporate-speak.

I arrived early, before Connor, placing the sealed envelope in the center of his immaculate desk where he couldn't miss it. Then I began methodically clearing my personal items from my workspace, filling a small box with photos, a spare sweater, the emergency tea bags I kept in my drawer.

"What are you doing?"

I startled at the sound of Connor's voice, nearly dropping the framed photo of my parents I'd just removed from my desk. I hadn't heard him arrive—he moved with the silent grace of a predator even in Italian leather shoes that cost more than my monthly rent.

"Mr. Ashford," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I've left something on your desk that requires your attention."

His eyes narrowed, taking in the half-empty desk and the box of belongings. Without a word, he strode into his office. I heard the sound of paper tearing—the envelope being opened—followed by a long silence.

When he emerged, his expression was thunderous.

"No," he said simply, holding my resignation letter between two fingers as if it offended him.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no, Ms. Carter. This resignation is not accepted." He tore the letter in half, then quarters, dropping the pieces into my trash bin. "You have a three-month notice period in your contract."

I swallowed hard, fighting the nausea that had become my constant morning companion. "Sir, I understand that, but there are extenuating personal circumstances—"

"What circumstances?" he interrupted, his steel-gray eyes boring into mine with uncomfortable intensity. "You've been with this company for two years. You've never taken a sick day. Your performance evaluations are exemplary. And now you want to leave without notice?"

I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "It's complicated."

"Complicated," he repeated flatly. "You've been acting strange for weeks, Emily. Pale. Distracted. Running to the bathroom every hour."

My head snapped up in alarm. He'd noticed? Of course he had. Connor Ashford noticed everything.

"Are you ill?" he demanded, and for a moment, I thought I detected genuine concern beneath his harsh tone.

"No, I'm not ill," I said carefully. "But I do need to leave this position. Immediately."

He stepped closer, invading my personal space in that unconsciously dominant way he had. The scent of his cologne—the same one from that night—made my stomach clench with unwanted memories.

"Is it another job offer? Higher salary? Whatever it is, I'll match it."

"It's not about money," I insisted, taking a step back.

"Then what?" His voice had dropped dangerously low. "What could possibly be so urgent that you'd abandon your responsibilities without proper notice?"

The irony of his question hit me like a physical blow. The reason stood right in front of me, demanding answers I couldn't give. The father of my unborn child, who had no memory of creating it.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I gripped the edge of my desk for support. Connor's expression shifted from anger to something like alarm.

"Emily?" For the first time in two years, he used my first name in the office. "Are you alright?"

The genuine concern in his voice was my undoing. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as the weight of my secret threatened to crush me. How could I tell him? How could I not tell him? The impossible choice loomed before me as Connor Ashford—powerful, untouchable, and completely unaware—waited for an answer I wasn't ready to give.