16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Daniella

As I settle into my new routine at The Garden of Eden, the days start to blur together.

The work is demanding but manageable and the people, while guarded, are professional and courteous.

I spend most of my time poring over financial documents, trying to piece together the complex web of transactions that keep the club running. I spend my nights being pleasured from every angle in Lorenzo’s bed.

One evening, as I’m finishing up some last-minute entries, my phone buzzes on the desk. It’s Mark, the journalist I’ve been working with to uncover dirt on the Duretti family.

“Hey, Mark,” I answer, keeping my voice low.

“Daniella, how’s it going?” His voice is a comforting reminder of the outside world.

“It’s...complicated,” I reply, glancing at the door to ensure I’m alone. “I’ve been going through the financial records here, and I’ve found some things that don’t add up.”

“Like what?”

“There are a few transactions that seem unusually large and vaguely described. I think they might be using the club to launder money. And I found some records that suggest Jeremy was involved in these transactions before he died.”

There’s a pause on the other end as Mark processes this information. “That’s big, Daniella. We need to get more concrete evidence. Can you dig deeper?”

“I will,” I promise. “But I have to be careful. They’re watching me.”

“Just be safe. We’ll need to meet soon to go over everything you’ve found. Let’s plan for the end of the week.”

“Okay. I’ll keep you updated.”

As I hang up the phone, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. The weight of everything I’m dealing with feels overwhelming, but I push it aside and focus on the task at hand.

I need to stay sharp if I’m going to uncover the truth, but I’m starting to wonder if I even want to know what happened at all.

***

The next morning, I wake up feeling queasy, It’s the same lingering nausea that’s been plaguing me for weeks.

I decided yesterday that it was finally time to see a doctor. I had slipped out at lunchtime, saying I had an errand to run. I had gone to the local Planned Parenthood. They had taken my blood and done some other tests and then told me they would call me to come back and talk to someone when the results were in.

I walk through the sterile, white corridors of the clinic, the linoleum floor slick under my shoes. The brightness of the fluorescent lights makes everything seem stark and cold. I grip my appointment card tightly, trying to anchor myself amidst the rising anxiety.

At the reception desk, a young woman with her hair in a tidy bun and glasses perched on the edge of her nose looks up with a professional smile. “Good morning! How can I help you?”

I grip my purse tightly, feeling its edges cut into my palm, a small anchor in the sea of anxiety swirling inside me.

“Hello. I had some tests done a few days ago,I just got a call that the test results are ready and I was directed up here for an appointment with Dr. Anna Hendricks,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I hand her the card which has a scribbled note from the first doctor who saw me.

She types quickly on her keyboard, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. “Name?”

“Daniella Roberto.”

She nods, clicking away. “All right, Daniella. You’re all set. Please have a seat, and we’ll call you shortly.”

I find a seat in the waiting area, the plastic chair feeling too firm against my back. Around me, a few other women—some with nervous glances, others with expectant smiles—flip through magazines or fidget with their phones. I try to ignore their presence, focusing instead on the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

I sit next to a woman in her late thirties, her belly visibly round and cradled by a loose, colorful maternity dress. She catches my eye and offers a friendly smile. “First time?”

“What?”

“Is it your first time having a baby?” she asks again, her kind smile not going away.

“Oh, no. I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh, lucky you then. I mean, my kids are a blessing and all, but I will kill to have my pre-children body back for just one day.”

I nod, forcing a smile in return. “Yeah.”

“It can be nerve-wracking,” she says, her eyes kind. “I’m on my third child and I still get anxious with every check-up.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” I reply, wanting this conversation to end.

As the minutes pass, I try to calm my racing heart. The waiting area is filled with the hum of hushed conversations and the occasional rustling of magazines. A nurse finally comes to fetch me, her face a mask of practiced professionalism.

“Daniella Roberto?” she calls.

I stand up with a mixture of relief and trepidation. The nurse who ushers me into the examination room is a kindly woman in her fifties, with a warm, reassuring smile.

She leads me down a corridor to an exam room. The walls are painted a calming pastel green, though the color does little to ease my nerves. The room is still too bright, with educational posters about pregnancy and women’s health hanging on the walls.

“Please have a seat on the table,” the nurse instructs, gesturing to the examination table covered in crinkly paper.

I sit, the paper rustling beneath me. The nurse takes my vitals and leaves with a reassuring nod. Dr. Anna Hendricks enters, her light blue scrubs a stark contrast to the clinical whiteness of the room. Her stethoscope hangs around her neck like a silent promise of expertise.

“Hello, Daniella. How are you today?” she asks, her voice warm and professional.

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to maintain composure.

Dr. Hendricks starts discussing the results of my tests, her words clinical but clear. When she finally says, “You’re pregnant,” time stops. The room seems to tilt. For a second, I wonder if maybe I should’ve been sent to the ENT instead, because my hearing seems to be acting up.

“What did you just say?” I ask. My voice is a whisper, deceptively soft.

“You’re pregnant, Daniella. I know this is probably a shock for you, but you have lots of options if you want to talk about them.” Her voice is so soft and placating that I want to scream at her to shut up because I’m not a child.

“Yes, of course. But I can’t be pregnant, I’m not pregnant. My periods, I’ve been getting my period.”

“Well, that’s because you’re probably only about three weeks along.”

If time stopped before, now it seems to move at warp fucking speed.

Three weeks pregnant. Three weeks pregnant.

Jeremy has been dead for more than two months. Three weeks pregnant.

Fuck.

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth in shock.

“What?” I manage to stammer, my voice a mix of disbelief and rising panic.

Dr. Hendricks’ expression remains calm. “I’m sure you weren’t aware. Your symptoms were heightened because of the imbalance with your hormones and I think it’s best that…” the doctor continues to speak, but I don’t hear her anymore.

I’m pregnant and the child belongs to Lorenzo. How stupid could I have been? How utterly foolish. I remember the first night almost exactly three weeks ago now, but when I think of him touching me, instead of the desire that typically curls in my stomach, bile rises and I slam my palm against my mouth to stop the puke.

“Are you all right?” Dr Hendrick’s voice is soft, and her eyebrows are bent with worry.

“No, I’m not all right, nothing is all right. This-this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

I am aware that there are tears in my eyes and they are spilling down my face, but I can’t do anything to stop them.

“No, that can’t be right,” I say, my voice trembling. “I—”

Dr. Hendricks nods sympathetically. “I understand that this comes as a huge shock. We can discuss your options and make a plan that’s best for you.”

I conjure up Jeremy’s face, trying to remember his smile and the tender way he looked at me. I can barely recall the sound of his voice, his laughter, the way he had loved me. He would’ve been an exceptional father. But what’s the point? The child isn’t even his.

He must hate me right now. Whereever he is, whatever he’s doing, if he can look down from the other world, he is probably disgusted with me right now, having another man’s baby in my womb and not just any man, Lorenzo Duretti. A fucking Duretti.

My mind races and I feel as though I’m sinking. “I need a moment,” I say, struggling to find the words.

“Of course. Take your time to process this however you need to.”

I jump down from the examination table and pick up my coat and purse.

“Thank you very much,” I tell her and she smiles, but it is strained.

“I know it may not have been what you planned for, expected, or even wanted, but babies have a way of being the blessing we didn’t know we needed or wanted. It’s the universe’s way of telling us that it knows us better than we do ourselves.”

Honestly, her pep talk is only making matters worse, so I sigh and smile at her.

“Thanks for all your help. I’ll be in touch.”

I leave the examination room, my heart pounding heavily in my chest. The bright, clinical lights of the hospital seem to mock me. I pass by the waiting area again, where the same woman from before gives me a concerned look.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

I shake my head, fighting back tears. “No, I’m not okay. It’s…complicated.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you need someone to talk to, sometimes sharing helps.”

I wonder what she would say if I told her that the man I love was brutally murdered by a crime syndicate family. And in a bid to infiltrate them and find out more about what happened, I got myself pregnant by their leader.

I offer a weak smile in return, then head toward the lobby. The bustling environment feels overwhelming. Each step I take feels heavier than the last and the weight of the news bears down on me. It is mingling with the fear and confusion about Jeremy’s death.

As I exit the clinic, the world outside seems different, more distant.

The bright sunlight hurts my eyes and the noise of the city feels like an assault on my senses. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the reality of my situation is overwhelming.

I am faced with an uncertain future, the looming investigation and a life that has just become infinitely more complex.