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The word mocked me from its perch atop the white plastic stick, a jarring contrast to the muted elegance of the gallery bathroom. Champagne bubbles still danced in my veins, remnants of a celebration that now felt as hollow as a cheap imitation.

“Pregnant.” Me. Elle Wilder, the woman who’d meticulously designed her life around blueprints and blueprints alone, was now facing a blueprint of an entirely different kind.

I leaned against the cool marble counter, my reflection a stark tableau of disbelief. Wild auburn curls, usually a vibrant halo of defiance, now seemed to droop in defeat. Emerald eyes, normally ablaze with passion, were clouded with uncertainty. Architect of steel and dreams, the critics called me. But this… this was a curveball even my meticulous blueprints couldn’t predict.

Outside, the muted murmur of the art opening hummed like a distant symphony. My heart thrummed a discordant counterpoint, a frantic tango of denial and disbelief. How could this be? It was one night, a reckless collision of champagne and moonlight, a fleeting moment of surrender to the allure of a stranger I’d never expected to see again. Yet here I stood, a brushstroke of irony on the canvas of my carefully constructed life.

I abandoned the test on the counter, its stark presence a haunting reminder amidst the sleek lines and polished chrome. Moonlight seeped through the skylight, casting eerie shadows that danced across the unfinished canvas propped against the wall—a tempest of crimson and indigo, a reflection of the turmoil within me.

A wave of nausea surged, and I pressed my palm against my abdomen, my fingers tracing the subtle curve that now held a secret capable of shattering my world. Architect, indeed. But what kind of life had I unknowingly constructed?