I Vanished With His Baby

My advisor quickly approved my application for the research project in Alaska.

When I read the confirmation email, my hands were shaking—not with excitement, but with profound relief.

For the first time in years, a door had opened just for me.

An escape route.

A path that would finally let me breathe again.

To be honest, I had tried to fix my relationship with Julian.

When Sloane first returned, I told myself I was overthinking things, that they were just close friends.

But every tender look he gave her was a fresh cut to my soul.

Every inside joke only they understood was another wound, leaving me bleeding internally until I couldn't bear it anymore.

Then I realized a cruel, simple truth.

Julian's indifference wasn't unintentional.

He was cold to me because he was so unburdened and happy with her.

His happiness just had nothing to do with me.

On the morning I decided to leave for good, I woke before dawn.

The entire penthouse was dead silent, bathed in the pale New York morning light.

I packed my clothes, my books, my entire life into a few suitcases.

As I took one last look around the cold, opulent apartment, I opened my photo gallery and permanently deleted every digital picture of us together.

One by one, the images dissolved into nothing.

Five years of marriage, erased in a few clicks.

For the next week, I used my upcoming doctoral dissertation defense as an excuse to immerse myself in my studies.

I didn't answer Julian's calls. I didn't go home unless I absolutely had to.

Strangely, the silence brought me a peace I hadn't felt in years.

Then one evening, as I was organizing my notes, my phone rang.

"Clara, are you done for the night?" His voice was low and familiar on the other end of the line. "I'm downstairs. I'll take you home."

I froze. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted simply.

Half an hour later, his black Bentley pulled up in front of the library.

He was wearing a dark suit, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he'd rushed over from a meeting.

For a moment, a familiar ache spread through my chest.

"Been busy?" he asked as he drove.

"Mmm. The dissertation defense is coming up," I answered vaguely.

He nodded, then paused. "Sloane is moving into a private apartment with medical support next month. She said she doesn't want to bother you anymore."

I stared out the window at the glittering cityscape. "Tell her it doesn't matter. I don't care."

Julian's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

He hadn't expected that answer.

He glanced at me, seeming to want to say something—but in the end, he remained silent.

So I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, I woke up to a wave of intense nausea.

I assumed it was just stress and went straight to the hospital without breakfast.

But when the doctor returned with my lab results, his expression was far too careful.

"Ms. Hayes, congratulations. You're ten weeks pregnant."

The room began to spin. My fingertips went ice-cold.

Ten weeks.

Before Sloane came back.

For a split second, I wanted to laugh at the absurd, cruel joke fate had just played on me.

I stumbled out of the exam room in a daze, the flimsy ultrasound photo clutched in my hand.

The tiny, flickering heartbeat on the paper—it should have been a symbol of hope.

Instead, it felt like a punishment.

I took out my phone and dialed Julian's number. It rang once—

And then I saw him.

He was with Sloane, right outside the obstetrics and gynecology building.

Sloane was clinging to his arm, her face pale, while Julian murmured words of comfort to her.

Julian froze when he saw me, a flash of shock on his face, before striding over.

"Clara? What are you doing here?"

I forced a humorless smile. "Nothing. Just... here for a check-up."

His gaze fell to the folder in my hands. "You look pale. What's wrong?"

"A headache," I said softly. "It's nothing."

Sloane tugged on his arm, her voice weak and tearful. "Julian, I feel so sick..."

He reached out to steady me, but I took a step back, clutching the folder so tightly that the ultrasound photo inside creased.

"I have to go."

"Clara, wait—let me explain."

"Explain what?" My voice was sharp, brittle—unrecognizable even to me. "That she's feeling under the weather, too? That you had to personally escort her to the OB-GYN?"

He flinched as if my words had stung him. "It's not—"

"Don't," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Don't touch me."

That single moment of hesitation—the conflict warring in his eyes as he stood between the two of us—was all the answer I needed.

I turned and fled the hospital before the tears could fall.

The biting New York wind scraped against my cheeks, raw and painful.

I pressed a hand to my lower abdomen and whispered to the empty air, "Don't worry, little one. We'll leave soon, to a place where no one can ever bother us."

The city around me blurred.

For the first time, I wasn't afraid of being alone—I was afraid of staying.