Annabelle's POV
The silence was a different kind of loud now. The kind that gnawed at your skin from the inside, humming beneath your bones. I'd always thought silence meant peace. But peace didn't feel like this.
It didn't feel like staring at a white ceiling every morning, unsure of where you belonged.
It didn't feel like your own face being a stranger in the mirror.
It didn't feel like throwing up every other morning because your body was creating a life you didn't plan for.
It certainly didn't feel like survival.
I moved slowly to the window, one hand resting on the low curve of my stomach. Barely noticeable. Yet everything about me felt different. I wasn't just Annabelle anymore.
But who was I?
The girl in the headlines?
"Runaway Bride Spotted Drunk in Club—Hudson Wedding Cancelled!"
They'd caught me at my weakest. Red-eyed, mascara ppsmudged, bottle in hand. A woman scorned, the internet had labeled me. Some said I was crazy. Others romanticized it. But no one asked why. No one questioned what could drive a woman to abandon a perfect wedding to a billionaire.
No one knew that behind that glamorous engagement ring was betrayal and heartbreak. No one saw Daniel in my best friend's bed. No one heard my heart shatter.
And definitely, no one saw what happened after I stumbled into that club, desperate to forget.
Not the man who found me.
Not what we did.
Not that I didn't even ask his name.
He hadn't given it. I hadn't cared.
All I knew was he was warm. Safe. Silent. He didn't try to fix me or interrogate me. He just held me like I wasn't broken.
And now—now I was carrying his child.
I moved back to the couch and picked up the ultrasound photo again. The image was fuzzy, abstract. Just a tiny shape. But it was real. A heartbeat. A possibility.
And something I couldn't get rid of—even if I wanted to.
I'd considered it. I won't lie. Sitting in the sterile clinic office, I'd asked the doctor about options. But my body wasn't ready. The surgery had weakened my system, and general anesthesia again posed risks. Complications. Even danger.
"It would be safest to delay," the doctor had said gently, her eyes scanning my chart. "Or… you may want to consider carrying the pregnancy to term."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was reality.
I didn't know how to feel.
I hadn't even processed the surgery. I could barely recognize myself some days. I still flinched when I looked too long in mirrors. I missed my old face, even if it meant people recognizing me. Even if it meant the judgment.
This new version of me was quieter. Sharper. A ghost of the woman who had smiled for bridal photos and said yes to a man who never really loved her.
A knock pulled me out of my thoughts.
My heart jolted. I never got visitors. I had groceries delivered to a drop point. I kept my burner phone off unless necessary. No one should know I was here.
I moved cautiously toward the door, not breathing. No sound came again. I peeked through the peephole.
Then froze.
I'd know that posture anywhere.
My mother.
I didn't open the door. I wasn't ready.
I slid to the floor, back against the wall, just listening.
"I know you're in there," she said softly. "Annabelle, please. I'm not here to fight."
I pressed my eyes shut.
She continued, her voice tight. "I saw the clinic record. I paid off the doctor. You changed your name, but I knew the signs. I knew something was wrong the moment the tabloids showed that video."
Of course she did. My mother always knew how to track people. She ran charity galas like war campaigns. What was a little backdoor information to her?
"I don't care about the wedding," she added, voice wobbling slightly. "I mean, I did. But I care more about you. I saw that picture of you in the club, and it looked like I'd already lost you."
Tears stung my eyes. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
"I don't care what you've done. I just want to help you, Belle. Please."
I didn't speak.
She didn't knock again. She just stood there for a few more minutes, maybe hoping I'd crack.
But I didn't.
Eventually, her footsteps receded down the hall.
I curled into myself, swallowing back everything I couldn't say.
The truth was—I didn't know how to be her daughter anymore. She'd raised me with rules, with high expectations and rehearsed smiles. We never talked about feelings. Never about Dad.
Dad.
I closed my eyes, remembering his laugh.
He'd been the only soft space in that house. He built me a treehouse once, even though Mom said it was childish. He let me paint the walls, told me stories, danced with me in the kitchen while Mom was away at fundraisers.
He died when I was fourteen.
And everything changed.
Mom turned into steel. I turned into a people-pleaser.
I gave her perfect grades. The perfect major. The perfect fiancé.
Until the illusion cracked.
And now here I was.
Sitting on the floor, clutching my belly, carrying the child of a man I didn't know.
I didn't even have a name. No number. Nothing.
He hadn't hurt me. I remembered that much. He'd been gentle. Respectful. Almost… too kind for a stranger.
But I was a mess that night. I could barely remember his face, let alone where he might be now.
Was he looking for me?
Did he even care?
Would he want to know?
Part of me hoped he never found out. Another part longed to know something about him—anything I could one day tell this baby.
"I don't even know your father's name," I whispered to the bump that didn't exist yet.
The words made me cry all over again.
I was so tired.
So goddamn tired.
But I had to keep going.
For the child I didn't expect.
For the version of me that might still exist beyond all this wreckage.
For the girl who used to believe in love—and might one day again.
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