Defying Scott's Blackmail

The pregnancy test trembled in my hands, two pink lines blazing like beacons of hope against the white plastic. Today. Of all days, it had to be today—the anniversary of Mom's death. I pressed my palm against my still-flat belly, tears streaming down my cheeks as a wild, impossible thought took root in my heart.

"Mom?" I whispered to the empty bathroom. "Is that you?"

The silence felt different somehow, warmer, as if she was truly listening. Three years. Three years since cancer had stolen her from me, and now, on this exact date, life was growing inside me. It couldn't be coincidence. This was her gift, her way of coming back to me when I needed her most.

I had to tell Scott. My hands shook as I grabbed my keys, my heart hammering with excitement that felt too big for my chest. After three years of engagement, of planning our future together, this was it—the beginning of our real family. The baby we'd talked about having someday.

The drive to Scott's penthouse felt like flying. Every red light was torture, every minute an eternity. I clutched the pregnancy test in my purse, imagining his face when I told him. The joy, the wonder, the way he'd probably sweep me into his arms and spin me around like in the movies.

But when I burst through his front door, calling his name, the scene that greeted me stopped me cold.

Scott stood in the middle of his living room, expensive suits scattered around an open suitcase, his usually perfect hair disheveled. His phone was pressed to his ear, his face pale with panic.

"Cheyenne, please, just calm down," he was saying, his voice strained in a way I'd never heard before. "Don't do anything stupid. I'm coming right now."

My excitement curdled into confusion. Cheyenne? His sister-in-law? Why would she be calling him in the middle of the night?

"Scott?" I stepped closer, but he held up a sharp hand, silencing me without even looking in my direction.

"I don't care what time it is," he continued into the phone, throwing shirts into his suitcase with jerky, frantic movements. "If you're having thoughts like that, I need to be there. You and the baby are the most important things in my life."

The words hit me like physical blows. You and the baby. The most important things in his life.

Not me. Not us. Them.

"Scott, what's going on?" My voice came out smaller than I intended, but he was already moving past me toward the door, suitcase in one hand, car keys in the other.

"Emergency," he said curtly, finally meeting my eyes for a split second. The look there wasn't love or concern for my feelings—it was impatience, as if I was an obstacle between him and wherever he needed to be. "Cheyenne's having a crisis. She's threatening to hurt herself."

"But Scott, I need to tell you something—"

"Not now, Brynn." He was already at the