I guess taxi drivers are used to seeing people cry in the backseat.

If I had decided on an Uber Pool instead, or if I decided to hoof it all the way down to my apartment, I may have had to deal with concerned looks, or people uncomfortably trying to not look at me at all.

Instead, the seasoned pro of a cabbie has no discernable reaction to my puffy, red eyes or my tear-strewn cheeks when I climbed in. Even though I’m barely able to verbalize my address through the sobs, he repeats it back perfectly before calmly starting the drive down to the Battery Park City area.

The streets are quiet downtown. There’s no traffic, apart from the few other taxis bobbing and weaving between lanes.

The weather’s warm, but the sidewalks are empty.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize the miserable, weeping face I see. My occasional sniffles sound like they’re coming from someone else.

The numbness is back, but I can’t stop the tears from coming out.

“There are tissues,” the driver points out helpfully.

I look down and see the small tissue box just in front of the back seat. I grab one, and a second one, and begin the task of wiping the accumulated tears from my face.

“Th-thank...” I blow my nose. “Thank you.”

I have tissues in my purse, too, but I’m not even thinking like that.

Like someone who’s crying.

But I am. I’m still in shock, knowing that it’s going to hit me, but not ready for the pain and the reality to strike me yet.

My tears are way ahead of me, though. I was crying while I was on my way out of Daniel’s penthouse, and I’ll be crying when it does hit me―probably after I get home.

Then, there’ll be even more crying.

That bastard.

I’ve always wanted to live with the attitude that nobody can bother you unless you let them.

And it’s always easier said than fucking done.

We merge onto the West Side Highway. I see all the luxury yachts sailing in the Hudson, all the upscale condo high-rises being built in Jersey City, of all places.

And all the hotels.

Even if I could perfectly adopt that attitude now, to just not let Daniel get to me one second longer, then...

No, that’s not an option. Not if I could be pregnant.

And I couldn’t do that not ‘not letting him bother me’ shit anyway. Does that ever fucking work?

It must.

It really should, anyway.

Maybe it can work. For me.

I open my purse and find a fresh pack of tissues. I start clearing the next batch of tears.

I’m breathing a little clearer, and I don’t hear myself sobbing any longer, but there are some fresh tears making it difficult to see clearly.

After I clear the tears away, I see that we’re passing Stuyvesant High School and the Borough of Manhattan Community College.

A public high school and a community college, and they’re still two of the best schools in the entire region.

Anyone lucky enough to grow up around here, or to raise kids here, has some great options.

I look at my stomach. It looks the same as always.

Not that it would look any different at some point in the pregnancy, but...

I pat my abdomen lightly a couple times. I don’t think I feel anything different.

Do I?

The driver’s used to seeing people cry, but I wonder what he’ll think if he happens to look in the rearview now.

The numbness fades, making way for a strange, giddy kind of confusion. I put my hand over my eyes and feel fresh tears still forming.

This is not the time to try and convince myself that I’m pregnant.

But if I am, somehow, then cutting Da―that bastard out of my life becomes much more problematic.

Both of my hands are clenching into fists.

No more numbness, not much more confusion―it’s mostly just outrage.

I can’t even get myself to think his full first name.

The taxi winds through the quiet blocks of my neighborhood too quickly and screeches to a halt perfectly at my front door.

Dammit, now the shaking’s starting again.

I steady myself as best as I can and carefully fetch a few bills from my wallet. I can’t even fucking count them right now.

The driver smiles when I hand over the fare. It must be enough.

Shaking and weeping, I propel myself inside, past the doorman and concierge, to the elevator and to my sofa—no, my bed, all through sheer force of will.

I’m not taking this well, but that’s right now. I allow myself to let lose in a way I couldn’t in the taxi, or the lobby. I need to get it all out now so I’m ready to deal with this rationally soon.

I sob into my duvet cover until I’m worn out on every level of my being.

I feel like I just had an intense workout, but without the spirit-lifting endorphins or sense of accomplishment. Fortunately, the worst of my physical reaction to the ridiculous, horrible revelation is over.

I turn over to lie comfortably on my back, looking up at my plain, white ceiling.

“Maybe it’s time to paint this room,” I say in a collected, tranquil voice.

Now is probably the time to think of something, anything positive that I can find in this shitstorm.

At least I found out about it tonight, right? This could’ve gone on much longer.

But what did I find out, exactly? I have some ideas, but now that I’m no longer a bawling mess, I should use my brain to solidify the obvious.

I zombie-walk to the bathroom to wash my face. I keep my eyes on the sink to avoid seeing the current state of my makeup in the mirror.

I scrub hard with foaming face cleanser and hot water, washing off the layers of deceit.

Without looking in the mirror, I pull out my makeup removal basket—yes, that’s what I call it—from under the sink and methodically cleanse my face of mascara and foundation.

One more wash, and I look in the mirror to see a red but clean face. I like the look of it—that’s another positive to come from tonight.

An heir.

That’s what it’s all about to him.

An heir for the fucking hotel magnate.

How I feel doesn’t factor into it, except for how he wants me to feel as means to an end.

It could be the way things work―or the way things are often done in that world, at that towering level of that industry.

That’s not my concern, though, because that’s the way that Daniel is doing things, and it’s selfish, disgusting, and downright fucking immoral no matter what.

I pull a washcloth from under the sink and dry my face, starting to breathe a little faster.

I take another look my reflection. A deepening shade of red is taking over my face.

How long could this have gone on for?

It’s like he didn’t miss a beat when we walked in to find that woman.

And his son.

He just kept looking at me. So weirdly calm.

I shout out some angry, nonsense syllable and throw the washcloth across the room. It falls harmlessly to the floor. I’m glad I wasn’t holding something breakable.

I don’t know. I likely won’t be in a state to figure out every part of the situation for some time.

I let out a small burp.

No more champagne—not until I’m sure I’m not pregnant.

Damn it, if I am, then...

Then, I’m pregnant. Daniel needn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

I retrieve the washcloth from the floor. It’s still close enough for me to just lean over and pick it up.

I’m feeling calm as I put the washcloth over to my clothes hamper, but when I toss it in, I notice that I’m still wearing my purse.

I get a peculiar pang of nausea, and I look down at my stomach again. I pat it a couple times.

Then I break down weeping again.

I rip my purse off my arm, let loose another angry yelp and throw the Fendi bag to the other side of the room with gusto.

The bag hits the far wall and drops peacefully to the floor without a single item tumbling out.

I acknowledge my luck with a quick nod.

“Okay, no more angry throwing.”

The tears only last another minute or so, but I know I won’t be falling asleep easily tonight.

Almost without thinking, I walk into the kitchen, open a drawer and pull out a stack of Post-It notes and a ballpoint pen.

I sit down at the table, ready to write something.

I stare at the yellow notepad for a long, uncomfortable stretch of time before finally scribbling something down.

Daniel doesn’t need to know.

Okay, what does that mean?

After staring at it for a bit, I realize that it means that even if I am pregnant, Daniel does not need to know about it.

He has an heir already. That kid—Darren.

“Okay.”

Now that I’ve decided, I doubt I’ll forget. I crumple up the note and throw it in with the paper recycling.

I go to bed and try to fall asleep.