CHAPTER SIX: THE CALL THAT NEVER CAME

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since that night with Damien. Three weeks since I gave in to something I told myself I would never touch again. Three weeks since I woke up tangled in his sheets, my skin still humming with memories of his touch, only to find that the man who had made me feel alive again had disappeared into silence.

I stared at my phone for the hundredth time that day. Still nothing. No message. No call. Not even a cold, impersonal text. I’d left two voice mails and sent him one email—just one. I didn’t want to seem desperate, though I already felt pathetic. I told myself he was busy. That maybe he was traveling or buried in meetings. But deep down, I knew what silence felt like. And this wasn’t an accident.

Damien Blackwood had moved on.

I pressed a hand to my stomach. It had started a few days ago—queasiness in the morning, strange food cravings, exhaustion that sank deep into my bones. At first, I chalked it up to stress. Maybe even a delayed hangover from a night filled with too much champagne and regret. But today, the nausea had been sharp, relentless, and familiar.

I sat in the tiny bathroom of my apartment, holding a pregnancy test in trembling hands. I didn’t need to look at it. I already knew what it would say. Still, when the plus sign appeared, my breath caught.

Positive.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

Tears burned in my eyes, but I blinked them away. There was no room for breakdowns. Not now. I was going to be a mother.

The rest of the day passed in a fog. I called in sick to work, curled up on the couch with a blanket clutched to my chest. My phone lay face-up on the coffee table, Damien’s name still pinned to the top of my messages, unread, untouched.

I typed: We need to talk.

Then deleted it.

Typed again: I’m pregnant.

Deleted it.

Finally, I wrote: Please call me.

It stayed delivered. But not read.

I waited. One hour. Two. Six. Still nothing.

By nightfall, I was pacing. My body felt too small to contain everything—fear, panic, confusion, and the flicker of something else I didn’t want to name yet. I needed answers. I needed to see him. I needed to understand why he left.

So I did the only thing I could.

I dressed in the calmest outfit I could find—a pale blue blouse and gray skirt—and took a cab to Blackwood Corporation.

The lobby was just as imposing as I remembered—cold marble, steel, and a receptionist who looked like she could sense fear. I approached, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I need to see Mr. Blackwood,” I said.

She didn’t even look up from her screen. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Blackwood doesn’t see walk-ins.”

“Tell him it’s Amelia Hart.”

The receptionist paused. Something flickered across her face—recognition maybe—but it was gone in a second. She tapped her keyboard, murmured into a headset, and then gave me a tight smile.

“I’m afraid Mr. Blackwood is in a meeting.”

“I’ll wait,” I said, already settling into the nearest chair.

Two hours passed. People came and went. Suits, briefcases, heels clicking across the tile. I kept glancing at the elevator, hoping I’d see him step out, meet my eyes, and realize everything in that moment.

But it never happened.

Eventually, the receptionist returned. “He won’t be available today. You can leave a message.”

I stood, throat tight. “Just… tell him I came.”

The ride home was a blur. The taxi’s radio hummed softly, some love song that made my stomach twist. Not from the pregnancy this time—but from something closer to grief.

That night, I curled up on my bed and stared at the ceiling, one hand over my stomach.

What was I supposed to do with this?

With the silence? The rejection? The baby?

Was it selfish to want him to show up?

Was I foolish to think he’d be different?

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—the way he looked at me like he saw me. I remembered the quiet way he’d brushed my hair behind my ear. The way his voice had softened when he said my name.

None of that could have been fake… right?

But how do you reconcile that tenderness with total abandonment?

I told myself I wouldn’t be the girl who spiraled after a one-night stand—even if it hadn’t felt like just that. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the way he said my name like it tasted sweet on his tongue… even if all of that cracked me open in places I didn’t know were still breakable.

Maybe to him, I was just another night. A passing thrill. A body.

But to me? It had meant something.

And now… it meant everything. Because there was a life inside me. A piece of both of us. And he had vanished.

Still, I waited.

Still, I hoped.

The truth hit me like cold water: I was alone in this.

Completely, terrifyingly alone.

Over the next week, I stopped checking my phone every hour.

I stopped replaying our night.

I even threw away the note he left on the nightstand. There was no poetry in it anymore.

I buried myself in work at the shelter. Took more shifts. Stayed late. Told my boss I was passionate. She called me dedicated

But none of them knew the truth.

I wasn’t just trying to stay busy.

I was trying to forget Damien Blackwood. I needed something—anything—to fill the ache.

Because I couldn’t let Damien Blackwood have this much power over me.

I wouldn’t let the memory of him shrink me.

If he didn’t want this child, fine.

I did.

I would do this without him. I had survived before. I would do it again.

I’d built my life from ashes once—I could do it again.

If Damien didn’t want to be found, I wouldn’t chase him anymore. I had someone else to think about now. Someone who hadn’t even opened their eyes yet but already depended on me for everything.

I placed a hand on my stomach, whispering into the quiet. “It’s just you and me now, little one.”

I didn’t know how I’d do it. Money was tight, my job barely paid the bills, and I didn’t even know how to tell my friends. But I would figure it out. I always did.

Still… that didn’t stop me from hoping. Hoping that one day he’d knock on my door. That he’d say sorry. That he’d say he missed me. That he’d want this baby.

But hope, I’d learned, could be cruel.

The next morning, I forced myself to get dressed and go to work. My clothes felt tighter than usual, though I knew it was probably just my imagination. Every scent in the shelter made my stomach turn. I avoided the cafeteria entirely and drank ginger tea in between work breaks.

During my lunch break, I sat under a tree in the courtyard, letting the warm breeze soothe me.

Tasha called.

“Girl, where have you been?” she asked. “You dropped off the planet after that night. I texted, I called…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve just… been dealing with some things.”

“Things like what?”

I hesitated. “I went to see Damien.”

Silence.

“And?” she finally asked.

“He never saw me. I waited for hours. His receptionist turned me away.”

Tasha cursed under her breath. “Typical billionaire behavior. What now?”

I swallowed. “I’m pregnant, Tasha.”

More silence.

“Say that again?”

“I’m pregnant. It’s his.”

“Oh, Amelia…” Her voice was soft now. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I’m keeping the baby.”

“That’s brave. And stupid. And beautiful. I’m coming over tonight. We’re eating ice cream and making a plan.”

For the first time in days, I smiled.

That night, as Tasha and I sat on the floor of my apartment with two tubs of ice cream between us, I felt something close to peace. Not happiness, not exactly—but a quiet resolve.

I could do this. I would do this.

With or without Damien.

Even if a tiny part of me still waited for the call… that never came.