Chapter Text
“Congratulations, Miss Wayne! You must be thrilled.”
Thrilled. Right.
Of course.Because nothing says thrilled like being told you’re pregnant when you are, quite confidently, not supposed to be pregnant.
You stared at her. Then down at your hands. Then back at her again.
“Ha…ha..hahaha!” You began to laugh, as if she had just told you some ridiculous story. Which, in hindsight, she did. A wonderfully amusing, untrue story that couldn’t be any more than a joke!
You wiped a stray tear from your eyes, giggling softly. “Ah, that was funny. Now, really, what is the matter with me? A hormone imbalance?”
The nurse stared back at you a little wide-eyed, simpering along with you awkwardly. “Ah…well, hormone spikes are to be expected with pregnancy, Miss Wayne.” She tugged at her collar. “You must be experiencing them even more prevalently, considering that you’re almost done with the first trimester…”
Your smile dropped. Then it rose again, dropped again, rose, fell, rose, and fell once more—like you were suffering from some minor muscle spasm. “Pardon me, if you’re joking, it’s not funny anymore.”
There was a pregnant (pun intended) pause between the two of you, and you felt as if your heart and stomach were replaced with bags of ice. A nauseating feeling overtook your being, and you prayed to whatever god existed that this was some overdone gag.
But it didn’t seem like a joke—not anymore, at least—because she wasn't taking it back.
You let out a quiet breath, attempting to stabilize yourself. It didn’t help.
“No,” you said, shaking your head faintly. “No, I think there’s been some kind of mistake.” And you weren’t wrong. There must’ve been a mistake—because you knew damn well your virgin ass wasn’t pregnant. In fact, it’d be a miracle if you lost your virginity before the age of 45!
The nurse was definitely concerned now. “I can have the doctor come in and explain everything more thoroughly—”
“Yes,” you cut in immediately. “Yes, I would love that. Please. Bring in Dr. Charlene, if she's not busy.”
She hesitated, then gave a small nod and slipped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her.
In silence, you stared at the wall, then at the floor, finally ending your baseless search at your trembling fingers. Pregnant.
No, see, the problem with that was, it didn’t make any sense. You would know. You would absolutely, one hundred percent know.
According to the laws of reproduction, there were steps involved in becoming pregnant, whether it be sex, IVF, or surrogacy. You’re fairly certain you’ve gone through none of the above.
The door opened again, and this time, the doctor stepped in. “Miss Wayne,” she greeted calmly, taking a seat across from you. “I understand you have some concerns.”
“Concerns feels like a mild word,” you replied faintly.
She offered a polite smile. “That’s fair.”
You leaned forward slightly, hands clasping together. “I think—no, I know—there’s been a mistake. I shouldn’t be pregnant, Charlene.”
She nodded. “We ran both a blood test and a urine test,” she explained. “Both came back positive. Your hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy, and based on those levels, we estimate you’re around ten to eleven weeks along.”
‘Ten to—what the hell?’ You leaned back in your chair.
Ten weeks. That was over two months.
Two months of…what? Going to meetings? Smiling at investors? Sitting through board discussions about quarterly revenue while apparently, what, growing a whole human being on the side? This is some serious bullshit, and you were starting to get really, really pissed.
The doctor’s expression softened, just a fraction. “It’s not uncommon for early symptoms to be missed, especially if you’ve been under significant stress.”
‘Oh great. Now this is somehow my fault, too??’ You thought bitterly.
“Now, Dr. Charlene, you’ve known me for a while now, and you’re well aware of my familial status.” You began, your face turning serious. “I’m not married, and as you can see in my file, I’ve made it clear I’m not sexually active.” As you spoke, she flipped through your papers once more, nodding at your every word.
“So tell me this: how is it that someone such as I becomes pregnant out of thin air?”
Dr. Charlene’s brows furrowed, raising a hand to her chin as she thought out loud. “We would review all possibilities,” she said gently. “Medical history, recent procedures, any potential complications or errors.”
Procedures. Your head snapped up.
“Hold on,” you interrupted. Your mind flipped through the past few months: appointments, family gatherings, obligations…your routine Pap smear from two months ago. You felt your gaze sharpen, glaring a hole into the floor as you sat up. “There was a clinical appointment I had a few months ago. Two, to be precise.” As you stood, your eyes zeroed in on the doctor.
You attempted to rein in your sneer, but you found yourself unable to. “It was a routine gynecology appointment. It was supposed to only be a Pap smear.” Something in your expression must have shifted, because Dr. Charlene’s posture straightened slightly.
“If there’s a possibility of a medical error,” she said carefully, “we can look into that.”
‘A medical error.’
That was a nice, clean way of putting it. “Yeah,” you said. “I think we’re going to want to look into that. Before I sue for malpractice.”
You didn’t mean any harm against Dr. Charlene, you really didn’t. She was a sweet, unassuming older lady whom you’ve known since you were a teenager. The issue is, if this clinic had any ulterior motives that led to you becoming pregnant, you would tear this establishment apart brick by brick—burying it in lawsuits so severe they’d be studied.
You saw her neck bob, swallowing the lump that swelled in her throat.
If this was some kind of ridiculous, one-in-a-million, lawsuit-worthy, reality-breaking mistake, then your life wasn’t just complicated. It was about to become a full-blown disaster. You couldn’t deal with this right now. You needed to leave.
You strode to the door, hand just grasping the handle before you turned to give her a damning look. “You will set up an investigation to figure out what the hell is going on. Not only will you do this, but whoever is at fault will suffer the consequences.”
“Do this or so help me God, I will utilize my name and figure it out myself.”
Dr. Charlene nodded immediately. “Understood.”
Good. At least someone in this building feared you appropriately.
You exhaled sharply through your nose before turning on your heel and exiting the office, heels clicking against the tile floors with enough force to announce your presence within a ten-mile radius. It wasn’t something you did intentionally, but you had bigger fish to fry at the moment. With that, you tried to ignore the nervous looks from the staff.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant.
With shaky hands, you opened up a private browser and searched. You nearly dropped your goddamn phone at what you saw.
You silently put your phone back in your pencil skirt (something you realize you’ll need to get rid of soon) and leaned your forehead on the wall as you waited for the elevator.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant with a lime-sized baby. That's a big ass baby for someone who didn’t know she was pregnant a few minutes ago.
The elevator ride down was agonizingly silent.
You stood stiffly beside an elderly man reading a golf magazine while your entire life collapsed in on itself. Somewhere between the fourth and third floor, you became aware of the fact that you were digging your nails into your palm hard enough to leave crescent marks.
Right. You needed to calm down. ‘Panicking accomplishes nothing.’
You were a Wayne. More importantly, you were the acting face of. You handled corporate scandals, hostile acquisitions, press disasters, and shareholder meetings on little sleep and lots of coffee. You could handle this.
When the elevator door dinged, you stepped out into the lobby in a daze, offering a distracted smile to the receptionist as you passed. The woman, noticing your grin, smiled back. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss Wayne!”
You stared at her for half a second too long. “Mm,” you replied weakly. If she found it odd, you didn’t notice.
You stepped out into the underground parking garage, where your driver was already waiting beside the car. The poor man took one look at your expression and immediately opened the door without a word. The second you slid into the backseat, you dropped your head against the leather and groaned loudly.
“Miss Wayne?” your driver asked cautiously.
“Please just…drive,” you mumbled into your hands.
The car pulled smoothly out of the garage, but your thoughts remained hopelessly tangled. You tried to think logically, truly you did, but every train of thought somehow ended with catastrophe.
There would have to be an investigation. Lawyers, statements, tests…God, you could already hear Lucius telling you to take time off from work.
Then came the even worse realization. ‘The family!’
A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck.
The press finding out would be horrible, yes, but the press couldn’t analyze your body language like an FBI profiler. The press didn’t have decades of experience identifying microscopic behavioral shifts during life-threatening situations.
Your family did.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Your driver glanced nervously at you through the rearview mirror but wisely remained silent.
Tim was going to figure it out immediately. The second you declined coffee or looked mildly nauseous or canceled family dinner or turned down a much-needed glass of wine—he would narrow his eyes like some horrifying little bloodhound and begin constructing theories. Tim-level probing was the last fucking thing you needed right now.
And Dick wasn’t much better. Dick noticed things in the worst possible way because he cared too much. One concerned look from him and you’d probably burst into tears and confess everything on the spot.
Jason, bless his heart, would commit homicide in your name if he discovered what happened. You REALLY did not need that.
Damian, in all of his shitty, arrogant, teenage behavior, would only psych you out more.
And Bruce…actually, no. You didnt need to think about Bruce right now.
As though summoned by your spiraling thoughts, your phone suddenly rang in your lap. Looking down, in big, bold letters was:
Dick Grayson is calling…
Of-freakin-course.
You stared at the screen with profound suspicion. In all honesty, you could be convinced the man had developed psychic abilities. After several moments of internal debate and a heavy sigh, you answer the call.
“What.”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
“…Hello to you too?” Dick replied, a soft chuckle coming from the receiver.
You closed your eyes. “Sorry, Dicky.” you said quickly, forcing your voice into something vaguely regular. “It's been a long morning.”
“Well, considering you just answered the phone like I killed your dog, yeah, I’d figured.”
Despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. Damn him.
“You need something?” You asked.
“Actually, yeah. Bruce wants everyone at the manor tonight.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
“Wow,” Dick said. “Usually, people ask ‘why?’ before rejecting family dinner so quickly.”
“I’m serious, Dicky. I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?”
You sucked in a silent breath, closing your eyes irritably. ‘Be kind. He doesn’t know what's going on. Don't be unfair.’
“Bug? You okay?”
His familiar use of the nickname felt as though a weight was relieved from your shoulders. You playfully sighed loudly enough for him to hear. “You know me, Dicky. I’m tied to work like an elephant to a chair.”
“Yeah, yeah. Liven up, Buggy—you always work. A day off won’t hurt.”
“Would you still uphold that philosophy if I told you to take a day off your ‘night shift’?”
“Ah! You got me there!” He snickered. “But in all seriousness, Brucie specifically asked for everybody. Even Tim will be there.”
You winced. ‘Oh, that's just marvelous.’
That little piece of info made it even worse, you think. With everyone there, the stakes of you being found out are even higher.
But, realistically, not even you knew until today…and it's your own goddamned body!
You leaned your head back against the seat again, already feeling the beginnings of a migraine forming behind your eyes.
One family dinner.
Surely you could survive one dinner without accidentally revealing your dilemma to a family of emotionally unstable detectives/vigilantes/operatives.
Right? Right??