Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption novel Chapter 225

Chapter 225: I can’t be pregnant...

The day had started without any grand fanfare. The morning sun was already high in the sky, dyeing the horizon with warm hues of gold and amber. A calm, cool breeze drifted in through the half-open windows, carrying with it the sweet, soothing scent of fresh blossoming flowers from the garden.

Jessica stirred awake, her movements sluggish and reluctant, her brows knitting instinctively as her hand reached out to the space beside her. It was cold—dead cold.

Her brow furrowed deeper. "What? He didn’t return again after I left the lobby?" she murmured to herself, her voice tinged with confusion and a flicker of concern.

Shaking her head quickly in denial, she whispered, "No... that’s impossible. He can’t just leave." Her head throbbed, a dull pain spreading slowly from her temples. She raised her hand, massaging the ache with careful fingers.

Her body felt strange—unusually warm, as if a campfire burned just beneath her skin. She hope and prayed fervently that she wouldn’t be coming down with a fever.

She patted the empty space beside her again, worry seeping deeper into her chest. "Where had he gone to?" she whispered. Glancing down at herself, she noticed she was still in the same nightdress she had slipped into before collapsing into bed the previous night.

She shut her eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, to calm herself. With great effort, she pushed the covers aside and sat up slowly from the bed. She needed her phone. She needed to call him.

Her hand reached instinctively toward the bedside table. But instead of the familiar shape of her phone, her fingers brushed against a neatly folded piece of paper—so carefully placed, it looked almost like a treasured gift.

With slow, cautious movements, she unfolded it. The moment her eyes landed on the familiar handwriting—his handwriting. bold, neat, yet gentle. A small smile tugged at her lips. She had come to know and love those strokes, each one holding the weight of emotion and care.

The note read: "Your phone’s out of battery and charging. Have your breakfast. I’ll be right back."

She exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. But her relief was short-lived. Her body still felt weak, fragile—as if it might crumble at the slightest movement. What was wrong with her lately? A glance at the clock left her stumped, "10am?" she almost screamed.

Determined to shake it off, Jessica dragged herself to the bathroom, splashing her face and taking a quick, lukewarm shower to revive her senses. Returning to the bedroom, she changed into something more comfortable—soft cotton pants and a loose sweatshirt.

She sat down at the table, her laptop opened with a gentle click. Her schedule was packed. The branch relaunch was fast approaching, and with Fashion Week just two months away, deadlines loomed like dark clouds and she must met up with time.

The breakfast was set out perfectly on the table —warm and inviting as though he had expected her to sit in this position.

She smiled faintly and opened the lid of the food container, but before she could even savor the aroma, a sudden wave of nausea hit her. Her stomach grumbled in protest.

Without thinking, she shoved the chair back and sprinted into the bathroom. Gripping the edge of the sink, she retched violently, her stomach expelling the little contents it held. Tears welled in her eyes from the force.

After rinsing her mouth, she leaned heavily against the sink, her limbs trembling. It felt like every ounce of energy had been sucked from her. No, this couldn’t be her.

Returning to the bedroom, she intended to rest a little, hoping her body would recover. But as her gaze fell on the wall calendar, her heart jolted in recollection of something she had forgotten. Her feet stopped moving.

Her hands trembled as she walked toward the calendar, each step filled with dread. Standing before it, she took a deep breath and counted. Her eyes widened.

"I... I can’t be pregnant?" Her voice wavered, torn between disbelief and realization.

She had never paid much attention to her cycle—there had never been a need to. Her relationship with Davis hadn’t begun on such intimate terms. But somewhere along the line, she had stopped keeping track.

Her pulse raced. She needed her phone.

Lately, Davis had voiced concern about her well-being. He’d said she didn’t seem herself. She had laughed it off, teasing him about his worrying nature. To her, it had just been fatigue.

Now, that assumption felt like a slap in the face.

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