Next, Baby Girl

Next, Baby Girl

By Lorna Satchwell

Shema rested her hand on her growing belly, smiling as Jarred leaned down to whisper to their unborn child. Her warm brown skin glowed against the soft morning light, and her sleek, pulled-back hair framed a face of quiet determination. She wore her favorite black turtleneck dress—elegant, understated, and strong, just like her. The apartment was quiet, filled only with soft jazz and the unspoken dreams of a future just beginning.

They were newly engaged, the rings still shining like their hopes—bright, bold, and full of promise. Every ultrasound, every late-night craving, every shared laugh brought them closer. Jarred painted the nursery while Shema picked names from her grandmother’s Bible. Their love was a steady rhythm, rooted in faith and joy. As they waited, hearts full, they knew: life was about to truly begin.

Jarred was the kind of man who turned heads without trying—smooth brown skin, deep-set eyes that always looked like they were hiding something wise or dangerous. His low-cut hair was sharp and clean, and he wore confidence like his mustard-yellow hoodie—bold and impossible to ignore. When Shema met him, he had the smile of a protector, the charm of someone you’d trust in a storm. A storm he once said he’d kill for her in.

And yet… something was off.

Lately, Jarred had been distant—distracted during baby name talks, missing appointments, and taking late-night calls in hushed tones. He would come home with red eyes and excuses. Shema tried to ignore it, chalking it up to nerves, but a part of her wondered if there was something he wasn’t saying. Something he couldn’t. Something she already knew.

Then, one rainy afternoon, Jarred didn’t come home.

His phone went straight to voicemail. His car was missing. And all that remained was the freshly painted nursery… and a letter with no name, left on the crib.

Shema read the letter.

It was a DNA test. Once… then again.

Her heart raced—not from shock, but from certainty. The truth she’d buried beneath guilt and soft lies was now in black and white.

Jarred wasn’t the father.

He knew. And he was gone.

Sitting on the nursery floor for a long time, Shema was surrounded by pastel colors and toys that suddenly felt like lies. Her stomach tightened—her baby shifted, reminding her that innocence still lived inside her. She had to act.

With a deep breath, Shema picked up her phone and scrolled to Hakeem’s name. She hesitated, then smiled—just slightly—before pressing call to FaceTime.

Hakeem answered. His face filled the screen—collected, unreadable.

Hakeem had always carried himself with an intimidating calm—tall, broad-shouldered, with a neatly lined beard and a low, steady voice that made people listen. He wore his cap tilted just enough to seem casual, but never sloppy. There was something calculating in his dark eyes—something Shema had once mistaken for wisdom, and Jarred had confused for loyalty. In truth, it had been something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Looks like congratulations are in order… Daddy.”

He didn’t blink. “You’re really doing this? After everything?”

“He knows, Hakeem. The test was on the crib.”

He shook his head slowly, disappointed rather than shocked. “You’re forcing something that was never meant to be public. It’s too early for a test to even be accurate.”

“I saw the results.”

“They’re wrong. Or fake,” he replied smoothly. “This isn’t how you protect a blessing, Shema. This is how you curse it.”

She frowned. “Don’t bring God into this.”

“I have to bring God into this,” he said firmly. “Because He’s the only reason I didn’t walk away that night. I comforted you. I prayed over you. And what we did—it was broken, yes, but so is the world. God still shows mercy. And now you want to expose it like it was some scandal?”

“I didn’t ask for any of this, Hakeem.”

“And I didn’t ask to be dragged into a storm,” he snapped, then caught himself. Softer now: “This is a test. For both of us. You know Jarred can’t handle this truth. You know he’ll break. Do you want that for him? For your baby?”

Shema’s lips trembled. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting it. I’m asking for faith. Let it go. Let the baby be Jarred’s. God will forgive us, but only if we stop digging the knife deeper.”

Shema’s eyes narrowed, voice hard. “You might want to fix this before your best friend does something neither of us can come back from.”

She barely had time to say more before a loud crash echoed through the phone. A door, kicked open. Then chaos.

“Jarred, please—listen to me!” Hakeem stammered, voice breaking. “I—I never meant for it to go that far. I swear on everything, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Jarred’s voice thundered, raw with fury and heartbreak. “You had her? My wife? You violated her—and then smiled in my face like a brother? A mentor?”

“I didn’t force her,” Hakeem cried, backing away, fear in his voice. “I know I crossed a line. I wasn’t thinking. But I swear, I’m sorry—Jarred, I’m so sorry!”

Jarred’s footsteps pounded closer. “You took everything from me. You taught me loyalty—and gave me this?”

The phone slipped slightly from Shema’s hand. Her breath caught in her throat. The weight of her betrayal, of the lies, pressed against her chest like bricks.

Through the phone, she heard grunts, glass shattering—Jarred and Hakeem locked in a violent struggle, rage and fear bleeding into every sound. Something broke—maybe a picture frame, maybe someone’s spirit.

Shema wrapped her arms around her stomach, whispering apologies her child couldn’t hear, unsure who she was trying to comfort—her baby or herself.

Then… the creak of a door.

Heels clicked across the floor, slow, deliberate.

“Hi boys,” a woman’s voice purred, sweet and disturbingly calm. “Am I interrupting something?”

Bang.

A pause.

Bang.

Both men dropped.

Shema screamed without sound, hands over her mouth as she stared at the phone like it might shatter too.

Then, soft breathing.

The rustle of movement.

The FaceTime camera shifted.

A woman’s face came into view—elegant, expressionless, deadly.

She picked up the phone.

“Hello, Shema,” she said softly, like she’d known her for years. “You didn’t think this little game would end with them, did you?”

Shema’s blood ran cold. Her breath stilled. Her baby kicked once, then went still too.

The woman smiled faintly. Her voice dropped to a whisper, laced with venom… and something worse—pleasure.

“You’re next, baby girl.”

Click.

Silence.

Not the kind that passes.

The kind that waits.

The kind that knows your name.

The kind that hunts.

Because as the saying goes—

An ice cube can’t sit solid alone in a glass of water.