The Uber dropped her off at a corner in Manhattan, blocks away from their penthouse. Jonna pulled her hood up and walked into a 24-hour CVS.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching everything white. The store was empty except for a security guard asleep on a stool.
Jonna walked to the family planning aisle. She grabbed three different boxes. Clearblue. First Response. The generic store brand.
She paid with cash she had stashed in her clutch. The cashier, a girl with purple hair, popped her gum and looked at Jonna's disheveled expensive dress. She didn't say a word, just slid the bag across the counter.
Jonna didn't go home. Flint might be there, or he might have sent security.
She walked to a small park nearby. The public restroom was open, a concrete bunker that smelled of bleach and stale urine. It was disgusting. It was perfect.
She locked herself in the stall. Her hands shook so badly she dropped the first box.
She waited. Three minutes.
She lined them up on the toilet paper dispenser.
Positive.
Two lines.
Pregnant 3+ Weeks.
Jonna slid down the graffiti-covered wall until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest.
It was real. The vasectomy was a lie, just as she suspected, or it failed. It didn't matter.
She pulled out her phone and turned it on just long enough to access her files. She opened the Prenup PDF. She searched for "Custody."
Article 8, Section C: In the event of dissolution of marriage, sole physical and legal custody of any issue produced during the union shall revert to the Harrington Family Trust to ensure proper succession training. This clause is absolute, non-negotiable, and supersedes any and all other articles pertaining to marital misconduct or fault.
It was a draconian clause. Her lawyer had warned her, his voice grave over the phone. "Jonna, this isn't a custody clause, it's an ownership contract. You sign this, and your child becomes an asset of the corporation." But back then, she thought she was saving her father. She thought she could handle it.
She was wrong.
If she divorced him now, they would take the baby. She would be a surrogate, discarded after delivery.
If she stayed, she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who lied about his fertility and had mistresses.
She looked at the tests. She wrapped them in layers of toilet paper and buried them deep in the trash can.
She walked out of the bathroom. The cold air hit her face.
She had to hide this. She had to hide the baby until she could find a loophole. Or until she could run far enough that the Harringtons couldn't find her.
But where do you run when your husband owns satellites?
