Chapter 3

Two months passed.

Valerie counted them without meaning to.

She counted them in coffee cups stacked behind the counter, in shifts marked by aching feet and forced smiles. She counted them in mornings she woke up before dawn to the sound of her mother slamming cabinets, in nights she fell asleep with hunger gnawing at her stomach.

And she counted them in silence.

Drugo Hawthorne never came back.

At first, she expected him to.

She expected to see him at the café.

She expected to see him at the university.

She expected to see him where they first met.

But he never came back after that day.

The first week after their encounter, Valerie jumped every time the bell above BlueBean Café chimed. Her heart would leap violently against her ribs, breath stalling in her chest as she lifted her gaze—only to find strangers. Students. Professors. Couples holding hands.

Never him.

The second week, she began scanning faces unconsciously. Tall men. Men in suits. Men with dark hair slicked back. Each time hope rose, fragile and stupid, only to shatter the moment she realized it wasn’t him.

By the third week, disappointment had settled deep in her bones.

He said he would find her again.

He said he would take responsibility.

Those words replayed in her head late at night, looping like a cruel joke. Sometimes she hated him for saying them. Sometimes she hated herself for believing them.

Maybe he forgot.

Maybe he decided it was easier to erase her than face what happened.

Maybe she was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Valerie learned not to expect the bell to ring for him anymore.

At home, things spiraled.

It started small—sharper words, longer glares. Her mother noticed she was slower in the mornings, her movements sluggish, her appetite inconsistent.

“Why are you moving like an old woman?” her mother snapped one morning as Valerie stirred the rice too slowly.

“I’m just tired,” Valerie murmured.

Her father’s chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Tired from what? You don’t do anything useful.”

The slap came fast.

Her head snapped to the side, vision flashing white. She tasted blood.

Her sister laughed from the doorway.

“Always pretending you’re sick,” she said mockingly. “Maybe if you worked harder, you wouldn’t be so weak.”

Valerie didn’t cry.

Crying only made it worse.

The abuse became routine. Predictable. Like the ticking of a clock counting down something she couldn’t escape.

She went to university with bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. She went to work dizzy and lightheaded, fingers trembling as she handled change. Sometimes her vision blurred while standing at the register, and she had to grip the counter just to stay upright.

Food became scarce—for her.

If there wasn’t enough, she insisted she wasn’t hungry. If she felt nauseous, she blamed stress. If she gagged at the smell of cooking oil or coffee grounds, she swallowed it down and forced herself to smile.

She didn’t connect the signs.

She couldn’t afford to.

Late one evening, after a particularly brutal argument at home, Valerie locked herself in the bathroom and sank to the floor. Her body felt wrong—heavy, hollow, aching in ways she didn’t understand.

Her period hadn’t come.

The thought flickered through her mind like a spark—but she crushed it instantly.

No.

That couldn’t be it.

She pressed her forehead against the cold tiles and breathed until the feeling passed.

---

Days later, during a lecture, it happened again.

Valerie sat stiffly in her chair, pen hovering uselessly above her notebook. The professor’s voice blurred, words melting into meaningless noise. Her stomach churned violently, sweat prickling at her skin.

Her heart began to pound.

Too fast.

Too loud.

The room tilted.

Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, dark creeping in from the edges.

“Val?” Julia whispered beside her.

She tried to answer.

Her mouth opened—but no sound came out.

Her fingers went numb. The pen slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

Then she collapsed.

---

When Valerie opened her eyes, the ceiling above her was unfamiliar—white, sterile, harsh.

A steady beeping sound echoed near her head.

She blinked slowly, disoriented.

“Easy,” a soft voice said. “You’re in the hospital.”

Hospital.

Panic surged.

“I—I have to go,” Valerie croaked, trying to sit up.

A nurse gently pressed her back down. “No, you don’t. You fainted in class. Your classmates called for help.”

Tears burned behind Valerie’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t have money. I can’t—”

“You’re not in trouble,” the nurse said kindly. “Just rest.”

Blood was drawn. Fluids were hooked to her arm. Valerie stared at the IV drip, feeling small, exposed, stripped of control.

When the doctor finally came, his expression was serious.

“Valerie Chavez?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Are you feeling any pain?”

“My head,” she whispered. “And… I feel sick a lot.”

The doctor glanced at her chart. “We’ve completed your tests.”

Her chest tightened.

“There’s severe fatigue, malnutrition, and dehydration,” he said. “But there’s something else we need to talk about.”

Her breath caught.

“We confirmed a pregnancy.”

The words didn’t register at first.

Pregnancy.

“No,” Valerie whispered. “That’s not possible.”

The doctor’s gaze softened. “You’re about seven weeks along.”

Seven weeks.

Her ears rang.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably as the truth crashed into her all at once—the timing, the symptoms, the night she tried so hard to forget.

Drugo.

Her chest heaved as tears spilled freely now, unstoppable.

“I didn’t know,” she sobbed. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“I believe you,” the doctor said gently. “But you need care. Three of you do.”

“T-Three of us?” the doctor smiled at her softly.

“Your baby are twins. You need a thorough care to your health for the babies’ sake.”

Valerie was dumbfounded. She was just looking at nowhere— still processing of what she have heard.

After he left, Valerie lay alone in the quiet room, staring at her trembling hand resting over her stomach.

There was no visible sign.

No movement.

No proof—except the weight settling in her chest.

A life.

Inside her.

She thought of Drugo’s words.

I’ll take responsibility.

A hollow laugh escaped her through tears.

He didn’t even know.

And she didn’t know how she would survive.

But one thing was certain now—

No matter how cruel the world had been to her, Valerie could no longer afford to disappear.

Because this time, she wasn’t alone anymore.

And whether Drugo Hawthorne returned or not, the consequence of that night had already changed her life forever.