Chapter 22
The drive back into Dublin feels like it takes hours, even though it’s barely twenty minutes. Every street we pass blurs at the edges. My thoughts are loud enough to drown out the radio, Tate’s intermittent talking, and the low rumble of the SUV.
Pregnant.
The word sits in my chest like a grenade.
It’s ridiculous. Impossible. Absolutely not.
Except…
My stomach churns.
My head feels woolly.
I’m exhausted, bloated, overemotional, lightheaded p>
The coffee.
And my inability to drink champagne in Paris. I haven’t touched a drink since. I simply haven’t felt like it, much to Livvie’s despair.
Shit. I press my palm to my forehead, praying to Jesus, Mary and St fucking Joseph that Savannah is wrong.
Things like surprise pregnancies by men I don’t even know the name of don’t happen to people like me.
I’m practical.
Logical.
Methodical.
Overachievers don’t get knocked up by a hot man they don’t know the name of.
And I’m on the pill.
I take it religiously.
I’m never late with it—not even by a minute.
This is something else.
It has to be.
Nico taps away on his phone in the back seat, and after a moment he clears his throat.
‘Dr Tessa can squeeze you in at twelve-forty-five,’ he says gently. ‘She said she’ll stay through lunch if she needs extra time with you p>
Tate glances at me again, one hand on the wheel, brows pulled together. ‘You want to go home after, or straight back to the office p>
‘I—’ My voice wavers. ‘I’ll see how I feel p>
Which is the closest I’ve ever come to saying I have no idea what’s happening. Tate doesn’t push. He never does. He simply nods and merges onto the main road.
The city feels too bright today. Too loud. Too full of other people who all look like they know what they’re doing with their lives. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here wondering if a holiday fling with a man whose name I don’t even know has somehow detonated mine.
No.
Stop.
Don’t think like that.
I inhale slow, deep breaths trying to regulate my erratic heart as we pull up outside the clinic in Blackrock at twelve-forty. Nico squeezes my shoulder before I step out. ‘Want me to come in with you?’ he murmurs.
‘No, thanks.’ This is something I have to do alone. I shake my head and swallow the lump in my throat that’s threatening to choke me.
Tate escorts me inside, stands back far enough not to fuss, close enough that I can feel his presence behind me like a wall.
The red-headed receptionist greets me by name and waves me through to the private waiting area reserved for the family.
It’s quiet—eerily quiet. Like the calm before the storm.
My focus falls to the fancy coffee machine, and I scowl, sinking into one of the plush duck egg coloured armchairs. Whoever decided green was a relaxing colour for a waiting room was full of shit. My hands clasp together so tightly my knuckles ache and the tips of my fingers turn white. My foot is tapping so hard, and I’m twitching like I’m wired to a live current.
I glance at my watch, a diamond encrusted Rolex gifted to me by my parents on my twenty-first birthday. The seconds slip by agonisingly slowly, yet when I hear Dr Tessa call my name, it suddenly feels too fast.
‘Zara p>
My eyes snap up. She stands in the doorway—calm, competent, and bright-eyed. She takes one look at my face and softens. ‘Come on in, darling,’ she says. ‘Let’s get you sorted p>
My stomach drops.
The kindness in her tone makes me want to cry. ‘Thank you, Doctor p>
I stand and follow her into her office. It’s exactly as I remember it—an immaculate mix of clinical and cosy. The walls are a soft warm grey. The sun slants in through slatted blinds covering sash windows. A subtle lavender diffuser hums from the corner of the room. Her doctorate and diplomas line one wall in neat black frames. The examination bed is covered in crisp white paper that crackles when she pats, motioning for me to sit.
It should make me feel safe.
Instead, it makes me feel sick.
‘Have a seat,’ Dr Tessa says gently, pulling her chair closer to the bed so we’re face-to-face. She offers me a professional smile as her eyes dart over my white-knuckled fingers entwined on my lap. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zara p>
The urge to cry hits me so hard it’s humiliating. I swallow it down and force a breath.
‘I’m… not sure,’ I admit. ‘I haven’t been feeling great since I was in Paris in February p>
Her brows lift slightly. ‘That was over two months ago p>
‘Yeah.’ I nod, staring at a tiny scuff mark on the floor to avoid her eyes. ‘It started small. I just felt… off. Tired. Like I couldn’t get my energy back after the trip p>
‘Are you sleeping?’ She inclines her head, thoughtfully.
‘It takes me ages to fall asleep, and then when I finally do, I wake up exhausted p>
She nods and reaches for her tablet. I glimpse my name and notes from my last appointment. ‘How’s your appetite p>
I wince. ‘Weird. Some days I’m starving. Other days, I can’t look at food. And coffee—God—coffee tastes like actual poison lately. I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I rush out. ‘Probably iron. Or stress. My schedule’s insane. And I had that faint spell during a Cosmopolitan photo shoot—maybe I’m just burned out p>
‘Okay.’ She nods. If she suspects my worst fear, she doesn’t voice it. ‘Any other symptoms? Just so I have the full picture p>
She taps it all onto an iPad as I speak. ‘That’s mostly it; fatigue, nausea on and off. Fatigue. I can’t shift the couple of pounds I put on in Punta Cana. In fact, if anything, I’ve only put more on. I feel bloated and uncomfortable p>
Shit, when I say it out loud, it’s not looking good.
I gesture vaguely at my face. ‘I just don’t feel like myself. Maybe it’s my thyroid?’ My suggestion sounds petty, even to my own ears.
She glances up. ‘Any palpitations p>
Only since Savannah suggested I might be pregnant. ‘Nope p>
‘Dizziness?’ she pauses, pushes her black framed designer glasses up higher onto her nose.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘A few times p>
‘Increased thirst p>
‘Yep.’ Fuck, I didn’t even think that was a symptom, but now she mentioned it, Scarlett used to take a litre bottle of water everywhere with her when she was pregnant.
‘Any changes in your training or exercise routine p>
‘I’ve had to cut back a bit. Pilates feels harder than usual. I get breathless p>
She hmms softly, like she’s connecting dots I’m desperately trying to pretend don’t exist.
‘Any major stress? Travel? Illness? Stomach bugs p>
‘All of the above.’ I laugh weakly. ‘Paris, then work exploded, then my brothers insisted I travel to Barcelona with them, for a project which they didn’t even secure. Then the Cosmopolitan feature, and before that—’ I stop myself before I say I slept with a man whose name I don’t know, yet I haven’t been able to get him out of my head and his face is the one I see every time I close my damned eyes. I blow out a breath. ‘Life is busy p>
She offers a sympathetic smile. ‘You’re a Beckett. Busy is your baseline.’ Intelligent eyes meet mine over the rims of her glasses. ‘I have to ask… any breast tenderness p>
I freeze. Heat creeps into my cheeks. ‘A little.’ A shaky breath escapes me.
‘And you’re still taking the prescription I gave you?’ Her fingers skim over the iPad. ‘Desogestrel p>
‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘The mini pill. I take it back-to-back. I never missed even one. I even take them at the same time every day. I’m careful p>
‘Good.’ She crosses her legs and says in a gentle tone. ‘But you know the pill isn’t one hundred percent p>
My stomach plummets. ‘I know. But—still—I can’t be…’ I can’t even bring myself to say the P word. ‘I just can’t be p>
Her voice softens, slow and calm, like she’s talking someone down from a dangerously high ledge. ‘Right, well, we’ll run a full panel of bloods. Iron, thyroid, vitamin D, B12, hormones, blood sugar—everything. And I’ll need a urine sample. Ruling out a pregnancy is a standard procedure p>
I nod, even though my vision blurs for a second.
‘Don’t panic.’ She pats my hand kindly. ‘Half my female patients on the pill get early pregnancy screens purely to rule it out. Most come back negative p>
‘Okay,’ I whisper. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It sounds like someone who’s terrified of what she might find out.
‘We’ll check absolutely everything, and whatever’s going on, we’ll handle it together, okay?’ She squeezes my hand. She’s the best. That’s why she gets paid the big bucks.
Her kindness almost makes me cry again.
Dr Tessa turns to her desk, snatches up a urine sample pot and presses it gently into my hands. She points at the doorway. ‘Bathroom is across the hall p>
I manage to find it, despite my shaky legs. By the time I do what I need to do, wash my hands and return with my sample, Dr Tessa is snapping on examination gloves and reaching for blood vials.
‘Ready?’ she asks, taking the urine sample from me and dipping a test stick in it. She sets it behind a stack of files, out of my sight.
A fresh bout of nausea rips through me, but I nod. She tightens the tourniquet around my arm, and the needle pricks my skin. She draws blood into eight different vials. Finally, she finishes and presses a pad to my arm to stop the bleeding.
‘Hold this here.’ She motions to the cotton.
I squeeze my arm, though my fingers feel numb. My pulse hammers, pounding through my ears.
She disposes of the needle, removes her gloves, and washes her hands in the small sink by the window. Everything she does is calm.
I am anything but.
My stomach twists again—sharp, insistent, wrong.
‘Now, let me just check the dip,’ she says lightly, turning her attention to the urine sample.
My heart stops.
She reaches behind the stack of files where she hid the test. Her back shields her face from me. I can’t see her expression. I hear the slightest rustle of paper. A small inhale. Several seconds stretch by, thick and suffocating.
I grip my arm so hard my fingers ache. The room feels like it tilts, just slightly. My skin prickles, too hot, too cold, everything wrong all at once.
She turns, her expression is soft.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
‘Zara,’ she says gently, approaching me with the small white test in one hand.
I shake my head before I even realise I’m doing it. ‘No. No. No, please don’t p>
She kneels in front of me. A doctor kneels for no one. A person does that. A woman who’s delivered terrible news kindly for thirty years.
‘The test… is positive,’ she says softly. ‘You’re pregnant p>
A foreign sound leaks from my lips—a single strangled inhale.
Images flash through my mind like someone’s flicking through photos.
His hands on my waist.
His head between my legs.
His tongue—deep, rough, claiming.
No names.
No numbers.
No strings.
My stomach caves inward.
‘I know this is a shock,’ she says, still kneeling, still grounding me with that steady warmth. ‘But you’re not alone. And you are going to be okay. I promise p>
My vision blurs. A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
‘I can’t be pregnant,’ I whisper. ‘I… I can’t p>
She reaches for my hands, holds them gently. ‘You are. And we’ll take the next steps slowly. One thing at a time p>
A sob builds in my chest, sharp and silent.
I swallow it down. Hard.
Because I’m Zara Beckett.
And Becketts do not fall apart.
Not even when their entire world collapses, with one impossible, shocking sentence.