Ella POV:
I’m not exactly sure how I ended up at the mall on a Saturday afternoon, waddling around like so sort of giant, hormonal, ticking ti bomb with two dudes pushing around in a wheelchair like I’m a VIP rockstar on tour. But there I was.
Jason, the poor man, was stuck representing at so ultra-important eting at Kingsley Corp — obviously because he was the only one with brains enough to keep a straight face in a boardroom. anwhile, Dylan and Max had volunteered (or maybe forced themselves) to take out for so last-minute shopping. Presents for their godson, they said. A nice gesture. Except for one tiny detail: I was almost ready to pop, waddling like a beached whale, and feeling every ounce of exhaustion and pain pregnancy can dish out.
"Ella, c’mon. Just a quick stroll. You’ll feel better." Dylan grinned like he was my personal cheerleader.
"Feel better?" I groaned, clutching my aching back. "I feel like I’m carrying a bowling ball attached to my insides. And walking? That’s a death sentence right now."
Max, who clearly hadn’t dealt with pregnancy yet, looked at like I was exaggerating. "You’re overthinking it."
"Overthinking? I’m dying here," I snapped, pausing dramatically to catch my breath while the two idiots argued about who’d carry my bags.
They eventually gave up and found a store selling wheelchairs — because, apparently, the universe decided this would be a great day to let experience the joys of mobility scooters for the walking impaired.
"We’re getting you the throne, Your Highness," Dylan announced, waving his arms like he was knighted or sothing.
Dylan exchanged a look with Max, and with the solemnity of knights on a quest, they nodded. "A wheelchair it is."
They hustled over to the nearest store that rented dical equipnt, where I was soon ensconced in a shiny, slightly squeaky black wheelchair that made feel simultaneously like a queen and a prisoner.
The best part? Dylan and Max both insisted on pushing . They wouldn’t settle for taking turns politely. No, this turned into so twisted battle royale of pride. They kept timing each other with their phones, switching pushing duties every thirty minutes, like they were on so cruel, exhausting relay race.
"Thirty minutes," Max declared, eyes blazing, as he shoved down the corridor.
"Thirty minutes," Dylan echoed, voice dripping with challenge as he took over with an
Max was already pushing the wheelchair around, grinning from ear to ear. "Race you to the smoothie bar."
"Wait, you’re not going to race with in the chair, are you?" I asked suspiciously.
"Why not? You could use the exercise," Max teased.
I gave him the stink eye. "I’m about to go into labor. The only racing I’m doing is to the hospital."
They both laughed. Then, sohow, the whole wheelchair thing turned into a competition over who could push longer.
"I’m pushing first," Dylan declared like it was a military order.
"No way, bro. I have better stamina."
"Okay, fine."
They high-fived like the deal of the century, while I tried not to cringe every ti one of them nearly crashed into a pillar.
At the smoothie bar, I finally got so relief, gulping down a mango-pineapple concoction. The sweet nectar was a godsend — my throat dry from all the complaining, maybe, or from the ridiculous heat inside the mall.
"You thirsty?" Dylan asked, watching sip.
"Yes! You’re a lifesaver."
Max elbowed Dylan. "Bet you can’t push her better than ."
Dylan rolled his eyes. "Please. I’m the champion."
"I call bullshit." Max smirked.
"Fine. Rematch after the bracelet store."
Bracelets.
That’s when the madness truly began.
As if that wasn’t enough excitent, we wandered into a boutique where I spotted it—a tiny, glittering bracelet on a display stand. It was exquisite, the kind of delicate thing that whispered "you’re wealthy and fabulous," and there was only one of its kind.
Suddenly, the entire peace treaty between Dylan and Max evaporated.
There, sparkling under a spotlight at a tiny kiosk, was the only bracelet of its kind in the entire mall. It was delicate, beautifully crafted — sothing both Dylan and Max apparently needed imdiately.
"Hey, I saw that first," Max said, reaching out for the bracelet with a look of pure greed.
"No, you didn’t," Dylan shot back, hand darting like a ninja. "I called dibs."
"It’s mine. I’m the godfather, I get first pick," Max retorted.
"Oh please," Dylan scoffed. "Being godfather doesn’t an you get everything handed to you. You have to earn it. Like by not acting like a maniac."
Their voices rose with each syllable until people around started to stare. I half-expected mall security to appear any minute.
"Guys, guys, please," I begged, trying to act like the peacekeeper, though my patience was running thinner than my pre-baby patience ever had.
"You should share the cost," I offered. "You both want it, so you split it, simple."
"No way," Max snapped, crossing his arms like a toddler who just lost a toy. "I’m not sharing. I’m not poor."
"I’m not poor either," Dylan retorted. "So you share!"
"Why don’t you just both buy two?" I suggested in desperation.
"Because it’s the only one," Dylan said, venom in his tone.
By now, they were practically in a wrestling match over the bracelet, grabbing it back and forth, hissing like alley cats.
At this point, I was done. Literally done.
I stood up, wobbling precariously on my giant pregnant legs, and with as much strength as I could muster, I gave both their heads a gentle but firm knock with my open palm.
"Enough!" I shouted. "You’re both ridiculous."
But of course, the universe had other plans.
Suddenly, a cold, warm gush spread between my legs.
I froze.
"Guys," I said, my voice shaking.
They both turned, eyes filled with the sa exact expression — frustration mixed with confusion.
"What?" Dylan asked.
"My water just broke," I said, staring down at the wet puddle pooling around my feet.
Max’s face twisted. "Please tell that’s not pee."
I shot him a death glare so hard he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Dylan’s eyes widened. "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no."
I clutched my belly as a contraction hit. I scread....
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