The days after Chris left Abuja had been strange for Bella. The house felt quieter, emptier, as though every sound carried the memory of him. The sheets still smelled of him—musk, cologne, and something softer, lingering. Bella sometimes ran her fingers over her skin. She would close her eyes, trying to memorize every detail of the nights they shared.
But sleep came harder now.
It was as though something inside her had shifted.
At first, she blamed fatigue. Those weeks in Abuja were a blast. They had conversations that cut deeper than she expected. They shared stolen moments that left her breathless. Their nights were so messy, so hot, they blurred the line between desire and devotion. Chris had stayed for three weeks. They had fallen into rhythm—his warmth, her surrender, a dance of passion that left her dizzy.
And the day before he left, it had been different.
That night had been theirs again—a kind of farewell they both knew would linger.
–––
The evening was heavy with humidity, the curtains pulled aside to let in the faint golden light of dusk. Chris had come into her room without knocking, leaning against the doorframe. Bella was lying on the bed, her skin bare beneath a soft silk sheet.
"You look like you don't want me to leave tomorrow," he said, his voice low, heavy with unspoken words.
Bella turned toward him, lips parting in a breathless smile. "Maybe I don't."
He crossed the room in two strides, closing the distance. His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Then we'll make tonight worth remembering."
They fell into each other like they had before—slow, desperate, claiming every second. His kisses trailed down her neck and across her shoulders, and every touch was like a promise.
Skin pressed to skin, heat sparking between them. Chris's hands roamed with urgency, as if he were learning her body all over again. Bella arched into him, nails raking his back, and her moans spilling out in broken gasps.
"Bella…" Chris whispered her name like a prayer, voice ragged with need.
She answered him without words. Her hips moved against his, her moans rising, turning wild, surrendering everything.
That night, they loved each other like never before. Each kiss, each thrust, drove deeper. It felt as though their souls spoke through their bodies, burning with a passion too fierce to name.
Chris rolled beneath her, clutching her hips. "Ride me," he begged, voice raw, breath catching in his throat. "Rock me, Bella—ride me 'til I can't breathe."
She obeyed, straddling him, grinding down as he thrust up to meet her. His lungs ached. Groans tore from him as she pulled him deeper, harder, until he thought he might come undone inside her.
But he wasn't finished. He flipped her, bent her over the edge of the bed, and drove into her again, harder this time. The room echoed with the sound of their bodies colliding—his growls, her gasps, and the slap of skin on skin.
"God, Bella," he groaned, pounding into her, his grip fierce on her waist. She clenched around him, dragging him deeper until his control shattered. At last, he cried out, a guttural sound, and released into her—his body shuddering with every thrust.
When it ended, he collapsed against her. They trembled together, slick with sweat and fire. Their souls were still bound even as their breaths slowed.
There was love in his touch, yes. But there was also something else—a quiet uncertainty she couldn't name yet.
And somewhere deep inside, a whisper that things were about to change.
–––
The day Chris flew back to Spain, the house seemed to lose a piece of itself. Bella tried to distract herself—she read, cooked, cleaned, and even met a few friends—but her appetite was gone.
At first, she ignored the odd feeling creeping into her mornings: a constant, subtle nausea. She thought it was stress. The aftermath of the trip, of everything that had happened between her and Chris, of the chaos with Adrian.
But then the symptoms grew sharper.
It began with her appetite disappearing altogether. The smell of food made her recoil. Even her favorite dishes—jollof rice and pepper soup—felt wrong. Soon, cravings hit her at strange hours: cucumber at midnight, lemon water at dawn. Bread and spicy stew at three a.m. She wondered if it was her body or if it was him, rewiring her in ways she didn't understand.
Her body felt different—heavy, unsteady. Her breasts ached, and exhaustion clung to her in a way sleep never touched.
One morning, Bella woke drenched in sweat as dizziness swept through her. Her stomach twisted in painful knots. She sat up on her bed, clutching her abdomen, and something inside her whispered, "This isn't normal."
The thought made her heart race.
–––
By the third day, Bella could no longer ignore it. The nausea was constant now. Her body felt alien. She told herself it was stress or food poisoning. But the voice in her head grew louder.
She called a clinic. The nurse was polite but concerned when Bella described her symptoms. After a battery of tests, they asked her to wait.
When the young doctor came back, his face was unreadable, but his voice was gentle. "You're pregnant."
Bella blinked. "What?"
"You're… pregnant," he repeated. His tone was soft, almost careful. He handed her a piece of paper—a lab result. Bella stared at it like it was a puzzle she couldn't solve.
The nausea made sense now. The cravings. The exhaustion. Her chest tightened. Her breath caught in her throat.
She was silent.
"Do you understand?" the doctor asked in a concerned tone.
She nodded, still unable to speak. The news spun around her like a storm.
She wasn't supposed to be pregnant. Not now. Not like this.
–––
Her mother found out that evening. Bella hadn't planned to tell her yet, but she hadn't been able to hide it. The signs were too clear.
They sat in the kitchen. The air smelled of green tea and lavender. Bella held the cup in her hands, staring at it as though it were a lifeline.
Her mother looked at her with quiet intensity. "Bella…"
"I'm pregnant," Bella whispered.
Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. The silence between them was heavy. Then her mother said, "I knew something was different about you. But… this changes everything."
Bella blinked back tears. "I didn't plan this. Chris…"
Her mother cut her off. "It's not about plans anymore. It's about what comes next. You have to decide—what do you want for your life?"
Bella's hands trembled. She wanted to tell her mother how empty it felt when Chris was gone. She wanted to tell her how even in his arms there were nights she still felt alone. But the words stayed buried.
Her mother's voice broke the silence. "You can't keep this to yourself. You need to talk to him. Whatever you decide, it has to be together."
Bella nodded, but her heart was already heavy.
–––
That night, Bella lay awake. The house was silent. Her body ached, and the nausea was worse. Her thoughts swirled—Chris, Adrian, the pregnancy, the choice.
She thought about Chris—his touch, his warmth, and the way he made her feel like she belonged. But also the way he vanished when she needed him most.
She thought about Adrian—his recklessness, the chaos, and the intensity. But also the poisonous truths he carried.
And she thought about herself—and whether she still knew who she was.
The weight of it all pressed down on her chest.
Her phone lay on the nightstand. Chris's name flashed across it. She didn't answer.
Somewhere deep in her soul, she knew that her life was changing forever.
She pressed her palm to her stomach, where the secret now lived, and whispered to herself:
"This… is only the beginning."