Chasing his Ex-Wife Back

Chapter 4

The hum of the elevator fills the silence between us, a tangible reminder of the chasm that has grown between our lives.

We say nothing to each other. The silence is thick, oppressive, almost suffocating. I keep my eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers, counting them like seconds ticking down to some inevitable conclusion. Each ding echoes with memories I’d rather forget. Damion stands behind me, his presence looming like a shadow. The air seems to thicken with every passing moment, weighted down by all the words we’ll never say.

I want to speak, to break the tension, but my throat is dry, and my palms are clammy with sweat. My heart races, my body betraying the panic I’m trying so desperately to suppress.

Suddenly, the elevator jolts. The lights flicker as it slows abruptly, sending me stumbling backward. Before I can regain my footing, strong arms wrap around me, steadying me against the hard line of his chest. His touch burns through the fabric of my blouse, warm and steady, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“Are you alright?” Damion’s voice is low, deep, and uncomfortably close. His tone is firm, almost commanding, but there’s a flicker of concern that catches me off guard.

I tilt my head up, and for a fleeting second, our eyes meet. The mask he’s worn for so long slips just a little, and I see something there—something real. Concern. Regret. Pain? My heart aches at the sight, a bittersweet reminder of what we once shared.

“I’m fine,” I manage to whisper, my cheeks reddening as I step out of his hold, putting as much distance between us as the small space will allow.

The scent of his cologne lingers in the air between us, warm and familiar. My breath catches. It’s the one I gave him for our anniversary. Why would he wear it today? The thought stirs a thousand questions I can’t afford to ask. Is he not over me? Is this just a coincidence? Or something more?

The elevator dings, cutting through the tension like a blade. Damion steps out first, his posture rigid, his stride purposeful. He doesn’t look back. The moment stretches painfully as I watch him walk away, leaving me alone in the hollow silence of the elevator as the doors close behind him.

I exhale shakily, the tightness in my chest unraveling just a fraction. Before I can collect myself, a wave of nausea rolls over me, sharp and sudden. Panic flares as I press the emergency stop button and rush out at the next floor, barely making it to the nearest bathroom. The cold tile bites at my knees as I lean over the sink, the world spinning around me.

The harsh fluorescent light reflects my pale, clammy face in the mirror. My heart pounds, and for a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her wide eyes brim with worry, her shoulders sag under the weight of too many unanswered questions.

A thought creeps into my mind, cold and abrupt. I can’t remember the last time I had my period. A shiver runs down my spine—not from the cold but from the sudden surge of possibility. Could it be?

The idea seems absurd. After all the pain, the disappointment, the endless nights of hopeless prayers—could it really be happening now? My hands tremble as I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face, shaking the thought away. I can’t let myself believe it. Not yet. Not until I’m sure.

The interview passes in a haze. The questions, the stares, the curious glances—all background noise to the drumbeat of uncertainty in my mind. I force myself to smile and nod in all the right places, my answers mechanical, automatic, while my thoughts keep drifting back to the bathroom and the possibility that terrifies and excites me in equal measure.

As soon as I’m done, I leave the building, the cool breeze outside a welcome reprieve against my flushed skin. My legs move on autopilot, carrying me to the nearest pharmacy. The shelves blur as I scan for what I need, my hands trembling as I grab a pregnancy test. My fingers feel foreign, disconnected, as I place it on the counter.

The cashier offers me a polite smile. I don’t return it. My mind is too occupied with the weight of what I’m about to confirm.

The test lies on the bathroom counter, the seconds ticking by as I pace the small space. Each heartbeat feels like a countdown, the anticipation almost suffocating. My chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as I try to prepare myself for the answer. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and finally look.

Two lines. Clear. Unmistakable.

A soft gasp escapes my lips, my hand flying to cover my mouth. The shock is overwhelming, giving way to a rush of emotions I can’t contain. Tears spill over, this time not out of pain, but disbelief and cautious joy. My hand shakes as I reach for another test, determined to see it again, to be sure.

Minutes pass, slower than the years I spent yearning for this moment. The result is the same—positive. A laugh bubbles up in my chest, part disbelief, part overwhelming emotion. I press a hand to my stomach, the realization sinking in.

I’m pregnant. After everything, I’m pregnant.

The room seems to brighten as the shadows of the past lift in the wake of this newfound hope. For the first time in what feels like forever, I smile without restraint, a genuine smile that reaches deep into my heart.

But reality isn’t far behind. The implications of this moment unfurl like a storm on the horizon. Damion. How will he react? Should I even tell him? The questions circle like vultures, pecking at the edges of my joy.

The memory of last night—the coldness in his eyes, Kaia’s triumphant smirk—flickers through my mind, threatening to drown the happiness surging in my veins.

I take a deep breath, grounding myself. This moment is mine. No one can take it from me. Not Damion, not Kaia, not the past. Whatever happens next, I’ll face it on my terms.

For now, I have to tell Damion. Whether he deserves to know or not, he’s the father.