The Unborn Witness

1 I had just walked through the front door after a grueling five-day business trip when I noticed a shred of black lace peeking out from beneath the living room sofa. I crouched down, hooked my toe around it, and dragged it out into the light. It was a pair of black sheer stockings—shredded right down the seam. A cold, suffocating weight dropped into the pit of my stomach. Every ounce of exhaustion from the red-eye flight rushed to my head, leaving me completely numb. I looked at Gavin, sitting in his wheelchair by the window, and heard my own voice come out flat and dead: "I'm exhausted, Gavin. Let's break up." Gavin froze for a split second. Then, without a flicker of emotion on his pale, handsome face, he gave a slow, measured nod. "Okay." I turned on my heel toward the bedroom, ready to throw my life into a suitcase and vanish, when a tiny, high-pitched, bubbly voice exploded directly inside my skull: [Mommy, don't go! Daddy didn't cheat on you! It’s all a trap set by that wicked tasker girl!] [Daddy is going to recover soon! He’s destined to become a multi-billionaire tech titan! That scheming parasite wants to conquer Daddy and steal your life, so she framed him to make you leave on your own!] [If you break up now, she’s going to stay by his side through his physical therapy and startup grind, and Daddy will spend the rest of his life pampering her while you get trafficked into some godforsaken backwoods and lose your mind!] I whipped around so fast my neck cracked, tears instantly burning my eyes. "Gavin Hayes! Do you even have a conscience? How could you do this to me?!" Gavin stared at me in sheer bewilderment. "What did I do?" I let out a bitter, trembling laugh. "What did you do? Are you seriously going to play dumb?" His brow furrowed deeper, genuine confusion washing over his sharp features. "Norah, I have no idea what you're talking about. Can you just speak plainly?" I kicked the shredded black stockings straight across the hardwood floor until they landed at the base of his wheelchair. "Don't you dare try telling me those belong to me!" Gavin stared down at the nylon bundle for a long, quiet moment. When he finally looked up, his jaw was tight with panic. "I didn't! Norah, I swear I have no idea how that got under the couch!" "I literally just walked through the door from Chicago!" My voice rose, hot and defensive. "If you don't know how it got there, am I supposed to know?" Gavin fell silent for two agonizing seconds. His expression hardened into something rigid and solemn. "Believe whatever you want, but I swear on my life, I have never done anything to betray you." "Then explain this!" I demanded, crossing my arms. "Did a torn pair of lingerie just materialize out of thin air in our living room?" There was no way I was going to back down and admit I overreacted. Gavin’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like a man drowning in dry air, desperate to defend himself yet having zero evidence to offer. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. After a minute of this standoff, I figured the point had been made. I was just about to soften my tone and give him an out when Gavin suddenly looked away, his voice dropping into a flat, icy monotone. "It doesn't matter where it came from. We're breaking up anyway." He stared at his useless knees. "I've been a burden to you for an entire year. I have sixty thousand dollars left in my savings account. I’ll wire fifty thousand to yours tonight." My heart seized. "You're breaking up with me?" Gavin nodded once, barely perceptible. "Yeah. Let's end it." My nose stung fiercely, tears blurring my vision. "Gavin Hayes, say that one more time if you have the guts!" He turned his face entirely toward the wall, his tone clinical and detached. "Norah, you’re young, beautiful, and brilliant. You could easily find someone whole. There is zero reason for you to waste the best years of your youth taking care of a cripple." I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, fighting back the sob rising in my throat. "And what if I don't want to leave?" "Think about it carefully," he murmured. Gripping his forearm crutches, he pushed himself up from the wheelchair with practiced, agonizing effort, dragged his deadened lower legs forward, and shut himself inside the study. The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face in hot, silent rivers. [Oh no, we're doomed!] the little voice wailed inside my head. [Daddy thinks Mommy staged the whole thing just to find an excuse to leave without feeling guilty! His heart is totally broken!] [If Mommy and Daddy split up, Mommy is definitely going to abort me! I waited in the reincarnation queue for decades just to get this slot! I don’t want to die!] [Waaaahhhh... Mommy, please...] The little boy cried and sniffled until his voice gradually faded into soft, sleepy breathing, as though the emotional outburst had exhausted his tiny soul. I stood frozen in the quiet living room. Slowly, instinctively, my palm drifted down to rest against my completely flat lower belly. "Don't worry, little guy," I whispered into the empty hallway. "Mommy isn't getting rid of you." 2 Gavin was truly furious this time. He locked himself in the study and didn't make a sound. I was furious, too, and my pride refused to let me knock on that door and grovel. Three years ago, I fell head over heels for Gavin the moment I saw him on a sunlit crosswalk downtown. I was the one who boldly asked for his number. Gavin had always been reserved, aloof, and maddeningly hard to pursue. It took me over a year of relentless flirting, bringing him coffee, and showing up in his orbit before he finally cracked a smile and asked me to be his girlfriend. We had only been officially dating for six months when tragedy struck. A reckless motorcyclist ran a red light and slammed into him. The low spinal cord injury left him paralyzed from the knees down. Even when the specialists at the hospital gently told us that a full recovery was practically impossible, I never once considered walking away. If it hadn't been for that ridiculous pair of shredded stockings, I never would have thrown a breakup in his face. I knew how Gavin’s mind worked. To him, only the two of us had keys to this apartment. Since he knew he hadn't brought anyone home, the only logical conclusion in his analytical brain was that I had planted the stockings myself—a manufactured drama so I could leave him without bearing the moral guilt of abandoning a disabled partner. That was why he had hardened his heart to "set me free." Well, screw that. Why should I walk away and hand my man on a silver platter to some opportunistic, dimension-hopping parasite? I had too much backbone for that. I was not breaking up. Even if Gavin insisted on pushing me away, I was keeping this baby. I’d raise our son, build a good life, and make sure we were a permanent, living reminder of what he threw away. Since I wasn't moving out, life had to go on. I sat on the couch for a little while, washed my face with cold water, grabbed my canvas tote bag, and headed out to the grocery store. On the walk down the street, I tried mentally asking my unborn son who this "tasker girl" was. But the little guy seemed to be fast asleep; no matter how hard I focused, my mind remained quiet. I gave up for the moment. On my way back, I stopped by a pharmacy and picked up a box of early-detection pregnancy tests. By the time I carried the heavy grocery bags back into the apartment, an hour and a half had passed. The moment I unlocked the front door, I saw Gavin sitting stiffly on the living room sofa. His face was a mask of cold indifference, but his dark, bloodshot eyes were fixed intently on the doorway—looking for all the world like a giant, heartbroken golden retriever that had spent the last ninety minutes terrified its owner was never coming back. He looked utterly pathetic. Seeing me walk in, Gavin tried to maintain his icy expression, but a spark of raw life instantly flared in his deadened gaze. He cleared his throat, asking the most obvious question possible: "You went grocery shopping?" I kept my tone perfectly even as I slipped off my shoes. "I bought short ribs. Is slow-braised okay with you?" Gavin blinked, a flicker of awkward relief crossing his face. "...Yeah. That sounds good." Right on cue, the little voice in my head woke up, dripping with smug satisfaction: [Look at him pretending to be tough! He thought Mommy left him for good and almost had a panic attack! Let's see if you ever dare bring up breaking up again, Daddy! Hehehe!] I bit the inside of my lip to keep from grinning and carried the groceries into the kitchen. Two minutes later, the rhythmic thud of crutches echoed down the hall. Gavin appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on his supports, looking uncharacteristically tentative. "Do you need help with anything?" I knew his biggest fear since the accident was feeling useless and discarded. So, I grabbed a whole head of garlic from the counter and shoved it into his hand. "Peel this. Then go start a load of laundry in the washer. And when that's done, take the dry clothes off the rack, fold them, and put them in the closet." Gavin’s posture straightened instantly, taking the garlic like it was a classified military assignment. "On it." He sat at the dining table, meticulously peeling every clove, and then hobbled over to the laundry nook. Twenty minutes later, he was back at the kitchen doorway, leaning on his crutches. "What else?" I dropped a few slices of fresh ginger into the simmering Dutch oven and turned around to look at him. "Nothing for now. If you're that bored, go do your physical therapy stretches in the study. And you better eat a huge dinner tonight, or I'm going to kick your butt." Gavin went completely still. A tiny, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Okay." I kept my face strictly deadpan. "Then get moving." "Right." He turned and hobbled back to the study. This time, he left the door wide open. And he made his physical therapy movements deliberately loud—the metallic clinking of the resistance bands, the heavy thuds of his corrective boots—as if desperately trying to prove to me that he was working hard. A quiet laugh slipped past my lips. My son was right. This man was stubbornly proud to a fault. He could talk about breaking up until he was blue in the face, but the thought of actually losing me terrified him to death. I tried checking in with the baby again to ask about the tasker, but the little guy had apparently dozed off once more. Kid loved his naps. 3 That evening, Gavin ate two full bowls of braised short ribs and rice—more than he had eaten in months. When he set his fork down, he looked up at me with wide, expectant eyes, practically begging for validation. I knew how fragile his sense of security had become over the past year. He craved my approval more than air. I cleared my throat and assumed my most serious, professional tone. "Not bad today. Keep that up." Gavin nodded earnestly, his chest puffing out slightly. "I will." Inside my head, a tiny voice chimed in with absolute disdain: [Daddy is so childish! Needing Mommy’s praise just for finishing dinner!] [Hmph! When I’m born, I’m going to make Mommy praise me every single day too!] I pressed my lips together to swallow my laughter. Like father, like son. They were cut from the exact same cloth. After dinner, I helped Gavin into his wheelchair and pushed him out for a walk around the neighborhood. Ever since the crash, he had been trapped in a deep, dark depression, refusing to leave the apartment for months on end. It was only over the last few weeks that he had slowly begun to thaw, finally agreeing to let me push him outside for some evening fresh air. When we returned, I helped him through his nighttime bathroom routine and tucked him into bed. Only then did I step into the bathroom to shower and unbox the pregnancy tests. Unsurprisingly, both sticks showed a stark, solitary pink line. Negative. My last period had ended just before my business trip, and Gavin and I had only been intimate once—the night before I flew out. That was barely four days ago. Biologically, it was far too early for hCG to show up on a standard strip; it usually took at least a week to ten days post-conception. I resolved to test again in a few days. In the quiet of the bathroom, I finally managed to connect with the baby's consciousness. Who is this tasker girl? I asked in my mind. The baby’s voice piped up clearly: [Her name is Scarlett Lind. She has an otherworldly "System" bound to her soul.] A headache began to throb behind my temples. A tasker equipped with an AI-like reality-bending system was a thousand times more dangerous and unpredictable than a standard romantic rival. I stepped back into the bedroom, climbed under the duvet, and looked at Gavin. "Hey... do you know anyone named Scarlett Lind?" "Scarlett Lind?" Gavin thought for a moment, his brow furrowing as he shook his head. "No. Never heard of her." Just as I suspected. She hadn't officially entered his life yet. I hesitated, then asked, "Have you ever read those sci-fi or fantasy novels? You know, the ones where people are assigned 'systems' to seduce specific targets and steal their destinies?" Gavin looked at me, mildly bewildered, before offering a gentle, exhausted chuckle. "Norah, web fiction is pure fantasy. Don't go applying tropes to real life." I knew he wouldn't believe me. Honestly, if I hadn't spent the afternoon listening to the psychic commentary of my unborn fetus, I would have thought anyone claiming such a thing belonged in a psychiatric ward. "Fair enough," I sighed, settling into my pillow. "We'll just take things as they come." Just as I was drifting toward sleep, Gavin’s arm reached out, pulling me tight against his warm chest. "I was thinking," he whispered into my hair, his voice rough with vulnerability. "Someone might have broken in while I was asleep. I ordered a hidden nanny cam online; I'll mount it in the living room as soon as it arrives. And I'm resetting the smart lock passcode tomorrow." I buried my face in his collarbone, murmuring, "I was going to tell you earlier... someone definitely slipped in when you weren't looking." His arms tightened around me, holding me so fiercely it almost hurt. "I'm sorry, Norah. I shouldn't have said those horrible things to you." My eyes stung with sudden warmth. I pressed closer, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. 4 The next morning was Monday. I got up early, made breakfast, and headed to the office. By the time I picked up fresh produce after work and returned home to cook, Gavin had a surprising piece of news. "I have an interview tomorrow," he announced over dinner. I paused, my chopsticks hovering in mid-air. "An interview? Where? Is it legit?" Over the past year, Gavin had submitted his résumé to dozens of software firms. But the moment HR learned he was confined to a wheelchair, the interviews were politely, abruptly canceled. Gavin explained, "It’s an early-stage tech startup just a few miles away. Small team, but the compensation package is solid. The founder interviewed me over Zoom and explicitly stated my mobility issues aren't a problem. I really want to give it a shot." I nodded enthusiastically. "Then go for it! If it doesn't work out, who cares? You're already making decent money freelancing from home anyway." Even while recovering, Gavin hadn't stayed idle. He took on high-end backend coding contracts online. It wasn't as lucrative as his old six-figure corporate salary, but it brought in a few thousand dollars a month—enough that we weren't drowning financially. A genuine smile lit up Gavin’s face. "Okay." "I'll take a half-day off tomorrow to drive you," I offered. Gavin shook his head firmly. "No. If I land this job, you can't be my chauffeur every single day. I need to figure out public transit and accessible rideshares on my own." I knew how fiercely he guarded his remaining independence. Seeing his determination, I didn't push. "All right. Just be careful on the road." ... Because of the big interview, we skipped our usual evening walk. Gavin spent the night in the study reviewing architecture docs, while I pulled his best navy suit from the back of the closet and carefully steamed out every wrinkle. I had been worried he might hit a wall, but the little voice in my head had briefly chimed in earlier, confirming that this startup founder was destined to be Gavin's first major business mentor. That put my mind at ease. The next morning, we woke up together. I helped him downstairs, saw him safely into an accessible Uber, and hopped on my electric scooter to head to work. Around eleven in the morning, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin: The interview went amazingly well. The founder wants me on board ASAP and offered top-of-the-band salary. I couldn't remember the last time Gavin had sounded so genuinely thrilled. I immediately texted back, suggesting we go out for a fancy dinner to celebrate. We chatted back and forth for a few minutes, and then his messages suddenly stopped. I assumed he was wrapping up paperwork or catching his ride home, so I focused on finishing my shift. The second the clock struck five, I rushed home, practically skipping up the stairs. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. "Babe! You won't believe how happy I—" The words died in my throat. Gavin was sitting in his wheelchair in the middle of the dim living room, his head bowed, his hands clenched tightly on the armrests. Thinking he was just lost in thought, I shook off the weird chill in the room and hurried over. "Gavin?" He jerked his head up. His face was devoid of expression, but his eyes were so chillingly cold that I physically stopped in my tracks. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. "What's wrong? Did the startup change their minds?" I asked carefully. "Hey, it’s fine if they did. We have savings, you can take your time looking for—" "Let's break up," Gavin interrupted, his voice like cracking ice. I froze. The whiplash was so intense I couldn't breathe. "What are you talking about? Why?!" "No reason," Gavin said with unnatural, chilling calm. "I just realized I shouldn't keep dragging you down." A terrifying wave of helplessness washed over me. It felt like no matter what I did, the invisible gears of fate were grinding us toward the same predetermined cliff. Still, I refused to just roll over. "You want to break up? Fine. But you owe me an actual explanation. Give me the real reason, or I'm not going anywhere!" Gavin's knuckles turned white. Without a word, he unlocked his phone and shoved the screen toward my face. The chat window was filled with high-resolution photos. Photos of me—in dimly lit hotel rooms, entangled intimately with a strange man in positions that made my stomach turn. They were graphic, disgusting, and utterly unrecognizable. I could barely stomach looking at them for more than a second before looking up, trembling. Gavin let out a quiet, mocking laugh. "I already ran them through image forensic software. The metadata is clean. They aren't composites. No photoshop, no deepfakes." The air was sucked out of my lungs. Tears blurred my vision as I choked out, "So if I tell you that woman isn't me... you won't believe a word I say, will you?" Gavin turned his face away toward the dark window, his silence hanging between us like a guillotine. A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Fine. Let's break up. I'll pack my things right now." Gavin didn't try to stop me. "Okay. I'll wire all the money in my checking account to you. Go find a safe, nice apartment near your office." I wanted to scream at him to keep his damn money, but then I remembered the tiny life quietly growing inside me. I swallowed my pride and kept quiet. I took a deep breath and looked at his rigid back. "If I told you right now that I'm pregnant... would you still insist on ending this?" A momentary tremor passed through Gavin's eyes, but his expression instantly flattened back into stone. "We used protection every single time. It's impossible for you to be pregnant." I finished the thought he was too cowardly to voice: "And if I am, you think it belongs to someone else. Right?" Gavin stared at the wall, refusing to answer. His silence said everything. I slammed my handbag onto the coffee table and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The moment I was alone, the baby’s furious voice exploded in my mind: [Idiot Daddy! Foolish, blind Daddy! Those photos were generated by that tasker bitch using high-dimensional System rendering!] [Stupid old man, how dare you doubt that I'm your flesh and blood! I am NEVER forgiving you for this!] [Mommy, don't cry! That idiot is going to inherit hundreds of billions in the future. You secretly give birth to me, and once he's insanely rich, we'll hit him up for massive child support checks every single month!] [You'll have all the money, all the free time, and no annoying husband bossing you around! You'll live like a queen!] I wiped a stray tear from my cheek. Honestly? My kid made a fantastic point. The suffocating heartbreak in my chest suddenly didn't hurt nearly as much. ... You never realize how much stuff you own until you have to fit your life into cardboard boxes. It took me two hours to pack my clothes, books, and personal essentials into four large moving totes, and another thirty minutes for the local on-demand movers I booked through an app to arrive. As the movers carried the final box out the front door, Gavin was still sitting motionless on the sofa. His lips parted slightly, looking as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, not a single sound came out. Right before I pulled the apartment door shut behind me, the hallway light caught his face. His eyes were blood-red, brimming with unshed tears.