A Second Chance For The Billionaire

5. Manoela Ferraz

The muffled noise from the college hallway barely reaches me, hidden away in this small stall of the women's restroom. I sit on the toilet, knees pressed against my chest, my body curled up as I try to contain the whirlwind exploding inside me.

In my hands, the pregnancy test. The object that carries the weight of the last few weeks, of every decision that has slipped through my fingers.

It's been a difficult month — maybe the most difficult of my life.

Ever since my father started getting sick, everything changed. That strong, stubborn man who was always my safe harbor, my foundation, could barely get out of bed now. The nights turned into long vigils, between ineffective medications, scheduled appointments, and a growing emptiness that consumed me.

I tried to be strong, as much as I could. But the work at the bar, the classes at college, and caring for him began to weigh too heavily.

That morning, the bomb dropped: I was fired from the bar. They needed someone who could be there all day, and I couldn't — not anymore.

I left Ravi's apartment with a heavy heart and a clouded mind, and hours later, I received the news that shattered what little ground I had left.

No job, not enough money for my father's hospitalization, and college — always my dream — taking a backseat once again.

Now, sitting here in the college bathroom, with heavy silence all around, my tears start to flow uncontrollably.

I look at the test in my hands, my breath faltering, my chest tight, knowing what I'm about to see.

The wait is cruel — every second feels like punishment.

Fear, insecurity, hope, and doubt all twist together in an impossible knot.

I know life will never be the same after this.

And as the result slowly appears, an icy chill runs through me — ready to face whatever comes, even if it hurts.

The symbol appears.

Two lines.

Two.

Even with my eyes blurred with tears, distorting the image, there's no denying it. It's there. Clear. Definitive.

Positive.

A sob escapes my throat, and I double over, hiding my face in my hands. The crying comes — muffled against my knees, but intense enough to leave me breathless. A silent wail, as if I'm crumbling inside while the world outside keeps spinning, unaware that everything, absolutely everything, has just changed.

I'm pregnant.

I'm pregnant... and alone.

His name invades my mind like a stab: Ravi. The night everything changed, the night I let myself go, trying to forget the pain. A moment of escape, and now... this.

The ache in my chest tightens. I don't know if it's fear, guilt, or just the despair of reality swallowing me whole.

My father is sick. I have no job. My college degree is hanging by a thread. And now... this.

A life. A responsibility growing inside me even as everything around me seems to crumble.

It takes me a few minutes until I can breathe somewhat regularly again, until the tears dry enough for me to move. My fingers are still trembling as I wipe my face with my sleeve, trying to look a little less shattered than I feel.

I put the test in my bag like someone hiding a bomb about to detonate and blow everything apart.

I leave the bathroom with slow steps, trying not to draw attention, even though I know my red face and swollen eyes give away what words still can't explain.

I cross the college courtyard as if I'm floating — distant, disconnected. Each step is heavy, dragging, as if I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. And maybe I am.

I reach the bus stop and sit on the wooden bench, hugging myself, as the cold London wind cuts across my face. The bus arrives. I get on without even registering the journey, just following my body's automatic flow. I sit by the window and rest my head against the cold glass. The streets of London pass by like blurred shapes — buildings, lights, people. All with their routines, their pains, their lives. While mine is on pause, on the edge of an abyss I don't know if I'll be able to cross.

I bring my hand to my belly, still unsure if that touch is one of affection, denial, or despair. The hospital appears ahead. I get off the bus with my heart clenched. Each step down the white corridor echoes in my ears as if it's drawing too much attention to me, as if everyone somehow knows about the chaos I carry in my chest. I grip my bag strap against my shoulder, trying to keep my composure. I try to take a deep breath, but the air feels stuck somewhere between my throat and my heart.

I reach the wing where my father is hospitalized. The same hallways as always, the same cold lights, the same tightness in my chest.

I push the door open slowly, as if afraid of what I'll find.

He's there, lying down as always — so different from the strong man who taught me to ride a bike, who scolded me for not wearing a coat in the cold, and who cried silently at the airport when I left for London.

Now, his skin is paler, his eyes more sunken. The machines around him emit slow, steady beeps — almost like a sad song, the kind you hear when you already know the ending.

The tuberculosis hasn't progressed further, thanks to the treatment... but it hasn't regressed either. He remains there — stable, suspended, as if living between life and something that keeps pulling him away from me.

I approach and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the wires. My fingers find his — now thin and fragile — and wrap around them gently.

"Hey, Dad..." my voice comes out low, hoarse from everything I've held in until now.

His eyes open slowly. A small smile tries to form on his dry lips. He looks at me the way he always has — as if I were his greatest achievement.

"Hey, my little one..." his voice is thin, a whisper almost unrecognizable, swallowed by the cough that follows and which he struggles to contain.

I grab the glass of water by the bed and help him take a sip, supporting his head with my other hand. He drinks little, and even that little seems to take too much effort.

"Did you go to class today?" he asks, trying to keep the conversation going as if everything were normal.

"I did..." I lie. Or maybe not entirely. I was at college. I just couldn't stay.

He nods slowly, tired. His eyes study me carefully. Maybe he notices my weary face, my swollen eyes. Maybe he knows something is wrong.

But he doesn't ask. Because that's how it's always been between us. He waits for me to speak when I'm ready. And maybe, for now, that's all I need.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Just the sound of the machines filling the room. Me, with my fingers intertwined with his. Him, looking at me as if that were enough.

Then, his hand squeezes mine — weak, but firm enough to make my eyes well up again.

"Manu..." he says, with effort, "I know that sometimes it seems like the world is against us... but you're stronger than you think."

I bite my lip, fighting the wave of emotion.

"I don't know, Dad. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning."

He smiles — that small, crooked smile, but full of truth.

"You always float, daughter. Ever since you were little. You always find a way to swim... even in the roughest sea."

The tears finally fall.

"I'm scared."

"Me too," he answers honestly. "But one thing will never change."

I stare at him, our teary eyes meeting.

"What?"

He smiles once more, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I love you, my little one."

I lean over him, resting my forehead against his — heart clenched, broken, whole.

"I love you too, Dad. So much."

And there, in that hospital room, with the weight of the world on my back and a new life growing silently inside me, all I can do... is keep holding his hand.

Just a little longer.