Morning arrived without ceremony.
No headlines. No breaking news alerts. No frantic calls demanding explanations. The world, it seemed, had accepted the spectacle of last night and moved on.
Jasmine woke before the alarm, lying still as pale light crept through the curtains of the unfamiliar apartment. For a moment, she didn't remember where she was. Then the weight of everything settled back into place—clean, sharp, undeniable.
The divorce.
The pregnancy.
The choice.
She sat up slowly, one hand resting against her abdomen as if to anchor herself. Six weeks was nothing. No curve. No visible sign. If she hadn't taken the test, if the doctor hadn't called, she could have pretended this was just another morning.
But she didn't pretend.
She never had been good at lying to herself.
After a shower, she dressed simply—jeans, a soft sweater, hair pulled back. No jewelry. No symbols. By the time she left the apartment, Jasmine Towers Acland was already becoming a name that belonged to the past.
---
The clinic was quiet.
A young couple sat in the waiting room, fingers intertwined, whispering and smiling nervously. Jasmine chose a seat across from them and focused on the neutral art on the wall. Flowers. Abstract. Inoffensive.
Her phone buzzed.
Keith: Where are you?
She didn't reply.
A moment later, another message.
Keith: You left the penthouse. We should handle this properly.
Properly.
Jasmine muted the thread and slipped the phone into her bag.
"Mrs. Towers?" a nurse called.
She stood. "Just Jasmine."
The nurse nodded, leading her down the corridor. No recognition. No judgment. Just another patient.
Dr. Nolan was kind without being invasive. She reviewed the results, explained timelines, asked practical questions. Jasmine answered them all calmly, as if discussing a business proposal.
Support system?
"I have one."
Stress levels?
"Manageable."
Plans moving forward?
"Yes."
When the doctor finally leaned back, her expression softened. "Is the father involved?"
The question hovered, heavy and inevitable.
"No," Jasmine said. Not hesitantly. Not defensively. Just a statement of fact.
Dr. Nolan studied her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Then we'll proceed with you as the sole decision-maker."
Sole decision-maker.
The phrase settled into Jasmine's bones.
Before leaving, she signed forms—consents, acknowledgments, documentation that made the pregnancy real in ink and paper. When she reached the line marked Emergency Contact, she paused.
Her pen hovered.
Then she wrote a name no one from the Acland world would recognize.
---
By noon, Jasmine was in a quiet café two blocks away, a laptop open in front of her. To an outside observer, she looked like any other professional woman working through lunch.
On the screen was a list.
Cities.
Schools.
Hospitals.
Job opportunities.
She filtered ruthlessly. No social overlap. No business ties. No shared acquaintances.
Her phone buzzed again—this time from an unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Jasmine." Her mother's voice, tight with worry. "What happened last night? I saw something online—"
"I'm fine," Jasmine said. "But I need you to trust me."
A beat. Then a quiet sigh. "You sound like you've already decided something."
"I have."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
Another pause. Her mother knew that tone. Had heard it years ago when Jasmine chose her career over comfort, independence over approval.
"All right," her mother said finally. "Tell me what you need."
Jasmine closed her eyes, gratitude threading through the tension. "Time. Discretion. And silence."
"You have it."
The call ended.
Jasmine stared at the screen again.
By evening, the list had narrowed to one city.
One opportunity.
One clean break.
She booked a one-way ticket under her maiden name.
The confirmation email arrived seconds later.
---
Across the city, in the glass-walled office overlooking the river, Keith Acland stood with his back to the windows, phone pressed to his ear.
"She didn't stay at the apartment," he said flatly. "I want to know where she is."
The investigator hesitated. "Sir, Mrs. Acland cleared out some personal files this morning. Closed a private account. Changed her contact address."
Keith turned slowly. "What do you mean, changed it to where?"
"That's the problem," the man said. "It doesn't point anywhere familiar."
Silence stretched.
For the first time since the divorce papers were signed, something like unease crept in.
"Find her," Keith said. "Quietly."
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Keith looked out at the city, jaw tightening.
He told himself it was a matter of control. Optics. Closure.
He did not yet know what had already slipped beyond his reach.
---
That night, Jasmine packed light.
She left behind the dresses, the shoes, the jewelry that belonged to a life she was done performing. When she zipped the suitcase closed, it felt less like abandonment and more like relief.
Before turning off the light, she placed a hand over her abdomen once more.
"Just us," she said softly.
Outside, the city hummed—unaware, indifferent.
And somewhere between one ending and another beginning, a secret took root that would one day change everything.