Chapter 4 : Tangled In The Aftermath

MARTHA’S POV

I woke up slowly, my head pounding like a drum. The sheets tangled around my legs, and I rolled onto my back, groaning. My mouth tasted sour, stale vodka lingering on my tongue. I squinted at the ceiling—white, unfamiliar, not my uncle’s cracked plaster. Where was I? I sat up, clutching the blanket, my brain a foggy mess. What happened last night? I tried to grab at memories, but they slipped away, fuzzy and out of reach. My skull throbbed, refusing to cooperate.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, fingers clumsy. The screen glowed—4:47 a.m. Almost five. Early. Too early. I rubbed my eyes, then froze. A soft snore came from beside me. My stomach flipped, and I turned my head slow, dread creeping up my spine. A man lay there, sprawled on his stomach, dark hair messy against the pillow. His bare back rose and fell, steady and calm.

Memories slammed into me like a flood—rain on a windshield, sudden and overwhelming. The club. Those drunks grabbing me. Him stepping in, all sharp jaw and blue eyes. Drinks. Too many drinks. Kissing him, pulling him close, the heat of his hands. Oh my God. I’d slept with him. A total stranger. I’d fucked a total stranger last night.

My chest tightened, breath hitching. I pressed a hand to my mouth, muffling a gasp. I couldn’t remember the details—how it started, how it felt—just flashes of skin and want. But deep down, I knew it’d been good. Better than anything with Nicholas. The best I’d ever had, maybe. And I couldn’t even recall it properly. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sharp. What was wrong with me?

I didn’t have time to sit here and cry about it. My uncle. If he knew I hadn’t come home, he’d flip—kick me out for good this time. And Lily—had she even made it back? I had to sneak in, act like nothing happened. I slid out of bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. The room was dim, but a sliver of light from the bathroom let me see him clearer. That face—angelic even in sleep, strong and perfect. I burned it into my mind, a snapshot I’d never forget.

My clothes were scattered, my dress were on the floor, bra by the chair. I grabbed them quietly, tiptoeing as I dressed. My shoes were near the door, and I slipped them on, wincing at every creak. I glanced back at him, guilt twisting my gut. I’d used him, hadn’t I? I’d thrown myself at him to forget my mess of a life.

I whispered, barely audible, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I had to.”

My wallet had a few coins—loose change, not much. I dropped them on the nightstand, a pathetic little pile. “I don’t have more, but… take this,” I murmured, ashamed. It wasn’t payment, not really—just something to ease the sting in my chest. I grabbed my backpack and bolted, slipping out the door without a sound.

The hotel lobby was dead, just a sleepy clerk who didn’t look up. I hurried outside, the cold bitting my face, and spotted a bus stop across the street. The sign said a bus to my uncle’s neighbourhood was due in five minutes. I ran, legs shaky, and slumped onto the bench. The bus rolled up, headlights glaring, and I climbed on, sinking into a seat by the window. My reflection stared back—pale, messy, a wreck. I closed my eyes, willing the ride to be quick.

Sneaking into the house was muscle memory. The back door lock was loose—always had been. I jiggled it open, crept through the kitchen, and tiptoed up the stairs. My room welcomed me, unchanged, and I crawled into bed, pulling the quilt over my head. Sleep took me fast, heavy and dreamless.

Days blurred after that. Two weeks, maybe three—I lost count. My uncle kept up his usual crap, grumbling every time he saw me. “You’re overstaying your welcome,” he’d mutter over breakfast, stabbing his eggs like they’d offended him. “When do you intend on leaving?”

Lily wasn’t much better, rolling her eyes whenever I passed her in the hall, her snide little smirks cutting deep. She was the baby of the family, still at home while her older siblings had moved out—married or free. She didn’t need to deal with me, and she made sure I knew it.

Aunt Claire was my only lifeline. “I’ve got you, sweetie,” she’d say, slipping me a smile when my uncle wasn’t looking. She’d pat my arm, her quiet way of keeping me afloat. I clung to that, but even her kindness couldn’t shake the fog settling over me.

It started slow—nausea, creeping up in the mornings. I’d wake up queasy, stomach rolling, and stumble to the bathroom to heave. Weakness followed, my limbs heavy like they were filled with sand. “Stress,” I’d tell Lily when she caught me leaning on the counter, pale and sweaty. “It’s just stress.” She’d shrug and walk off, not caring. But Claire noticed. I saw it in her eyes, the way they lingered when I pushed food around my plate.

Three weeks after that night, I got up early to help with breakfast. The kitchen smelled warm—coffee, toast, bacon frying in the pan. I cracked eggs, hands steady at first, until the bacon hit me. That greasy, smoky scent I’d always loved twisted my stomach hard. My throat burned, and I dropped the spatula, bolting from the room. Claire called after me, but I didn’t stop, racing upstairs to my bathroom.

I barely made it, collapsing over the toilet as vomit spilled out, sour and relentless. My knees dug into the tile, hands gripping the seat. Footsteps followed—Claire, quick and worried. She knelt beside me, rubbing my back as I heaved again.

“Martha, what’s wrong with you?” she asked, voice soft but firm.

I gasped, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She didn’t buy it, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve been off for days. You’ve been acting weird and weak. What’s going on?”

“I’m okay,” I insisted, sitting back on my heels. My stomach settled, but my head spun. “Really.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, sharper now. “Something’s wrong, Martha. I can see it.”

I met her gaze, my heart thudding. “What?”

She paused, then asked, quiet and careful, “When was the last time you saw your period?”

My breath stopped. I stared at her, mind racing.My period—it was due two weeks ago, right after that night. I’d been so caught up in surviving, I hadn’t noticed it never came. Three weeks late now. My mouth opened, but Claire cut me off quickly.

“You’re pregnant, Martha,” she exclaimed as she stood up, brushing her hands on her apron.

“No… what? That’s not… true,” I started, my chest beating faster in fear.

There was no way that I could be pregnant right? And if I was truly pregnant then that man from the club was responsible because Nicholas stopped making love to me after the divorce which was two months before I moved here.

“Martha… this is huge—” Claire whispered, her hands trembling as she walked towards me to console me.

In that moment I heard the hurried footsteps from the hallway, Claire’s first outburst must have gotten to my uncle. And true to my thoughts he came bursting into my room like he owned the place, which he sure did.

“Who is pregnant, honey?” he asked in his authoritative voice immediately he got inside, his fierce gaze fixed on me.

“Uhm.. it’s uhm… it’s Martha,” Claire replied despite me shaking my head as a signal for her not to say anything.

“Martha! Who is responsible for that child in your womb?” He thundered.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I looked at him. I could feel the anger brewing from him as he walked towards me in fury, my trembling knees gave way as I fell to the floor in fear. I can’t tell him that I got pregnant from a one night stand on my first night here, he would kick me out and call me a whore.

“Answer me you bitch—”

“Nicholas… It’s Nicholas’ child!” I yelled back at him with expectations that he would understand why I was running away from Nicholas. But I was wrong…