Knocked Up by My Runaway Mate

“He’s gone.”

I said it aloud, standing in the doorway of our apartment bedroom. The words tasted flat, final. The only other sound was the faint, rhythmic squeak of the bathroom faucet dripping onto the edge of the porcelain sink. Right onto the blue cap of Kael’s razor foam.

My hand tightened around the plastic stick I’d been holding for the last hour. Two pink lines. Two of them.

I’d practiced saying it in my head, over and over, finding the right tone. “Kael, there’s something we need to talk about. It’s… it’s good news, I think.” Or maybe, “Hey, guess what? You’re gonna be a dad.” I’d pictured his face—that slow, surprised smile, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners before he’d pull me into a hug.

I’d left the test on the edge of the counter, right next to his things. A beacon. A confession.

Now, his things were gone.

I pushed open the bedroom door fully. The air in the living room was still, stale. His leather jacket wasn’t slung over the armchair. His wallet wasn’t on the coffee table. The key ring with the little silver fob wasn’t in its dish.

“Fuck.”

My voice was a whisper this time. I walked to the window he liked to crack open at night. It wasn’t cracked. It was shut, but not quite. The latch hadn’t caught. A chill from the evening outside nudged it, making it sway gently back and forth against the frame. He left through the front door. He closed this. But he didn’t lock it.

He didn’t care.

I pulled my phone out. My thumb found his name. I pressed call.

Silence. Then the automated voicemail greeting. “You’ve reached Kael. Leave a message.”

I didn’t leave a message. I called again. Again. Again. Seven times. The screen lit up with each attempt, a tiny digital flare of hope that died each time it connected to nothing.

The apartment felt too big. Too quiet. I grabbed my own coat, a thin wool thing that didn’t really cut the autumn wind, and headed out into the hallway.

I didn’t go far. Just to the elevator bank. Our floor was three. I leaned against the cold wall, watching the numbers above the doors. He’ll come back. He just went for a walk. For a drink. He’ll come back and I’ll tell him. And everything will be… different.

The light above the elevator shifted. Down from 12. To 10. To 8. It stopped at 3.

My breath caught in my throat—not a hitch, just a stop. The doors slid open.

And Kael Morrow stepped out.

He saw me immediately. His eyes, usually so warm, so teasing, went wide. Then blank. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say my name. He stepped back into the elevator, his hand slamming against the panel inside. His finger jabbed the ‘door close’ button.

I moved forward, my own hand reaching out. “Kael—!”

The doors slid shut. His face, a pale, frozen mask, disappeared behind the polished metal.

The numbers above lit up again. Going up. Four. Five. Six. All the way to twelve.

Twelve. His parents’ floor. The Morrow family penthouse.

I stood there for a long minute, staring at the closed doors. My stomach tightened, a low, insistent cramp that had nothing to do with the thing growing inside it. He saw me. He ran. He ran to them.

I took the stairs. My feet were heavy on the concrete steps, but I climbed them anyway, all nine flights up to the twelfth floor. The carpet here was thicker, the air smelled of polished wood and faint, expensive perfume.

The Morrow door was a heavy, dark oak thing with a brass handle.

I pressed the bell.

A minute passed. Then a speaker crackled. “Who is it?”

A voice I knew. The family’s head of staff, Mr. Alden. Crisp, neutral.

“It’s Lyra. Lyra Thornfield. Is Kael there? I need to see him.”

“Mr. Morrow is not in residence at present.”

I stared at the door. “I saw him get out of the elevator on this floor. Just now.”

A pause. “I’m sorry, Miss Thornfield. He is not available.”

The speaker went silent.

I didn’t move. I stood on the plush hallway carpet, my coat hanging open, my hand still pressed against my belly. A shield. A secret. Forty minutes. The light from the ceiling fixture dimmed as the evening deepened into night outside the windows at the end of the hall. No sound came from behind the door.

I should leave. The thought was clear, logical. He doesn’t want to see you. He ran.

But my feet were roots. My eyes were fixed on the brass handle.

Then, a sound. Not from the main door. From the side—a narrower, painted door set into the wall a few feet away. A service entrance? It inched open. Just a crack. No face appeared. No voice.

An envelope slid out, pushed by a unseen hand from the darkness within. It fell onto the carpet with a soft thwap.

It was cream-colored. Thick paper. My name was written on the front in neat, impersonal block letters: Lyra Thornfield.

I picked it up. My fingers were cold. I tore the flap open.

Inside was a single card. A wedding invitation.

Kael Morrow & Selene Vance Join us in celebration of their union Three days hence.

The date was current. This Saturday.

The paper was crisp, expensive. The ink was deep, black.

My other hand, the one that had been resting on my stomach, curled into a fist. The nails dug into my palm.

The invitation trembled in my grasp.

Three days. He’s marrying someone else in three days.

The side door clicked shut. The lock turned.

I stood there, holding the two things that had become my entire world in the span of a single evening: the secret curling inside me, and the paper proof that the man who’d put it there was already leaving.