Mr. Remington Got Me Pregnant novel Chapter 11

Emery’s POV

Freedom. It was just one word, but it carried the kind of warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. No more pressure to smile through suffocating conversations or keep my back straight for the sake of appearances.

No more hushed voices behind doors or tight dresses I didn’t choose. Now, things were quieter. Slower, peaceful, and most of all, free.

I never thought I’d live above a bakery. The scent of cinnamon rolls and sea salt drifted through my window every morning, wrapping around me like a soft blanket.

It was the kind of thing that would’ve felt like a fantasy not too long ago, something I’d maybe see in a movie or read about in a novel where the girl finally gets a second chance. Now, it was my reality.

No drama, no spotlight, just me and the mornings that started with warm bread and ocean air.

I started going by Rose, it wasn’t a fake name. It was my middle name, just the part of me I’d decided to keep.

‘Emery’ felt like a girl too tied to other people’s decisions. A girl who had to ask for space and never got it. Rose, on the other hand, felt clean and light. Like breathing fresh air after a storm.

There was nothing complicated about her.

The apartment was small, nothing fancy. One bedroom, old creaky floorboards, a chipped windowsill that looked out over the street below. But it was mine, every corner felt like I could grow into it. I didn’t need much anyway, just enough space for my peace to take root.

Every morning, I walked to the pier with a paper bag full of bread crumbs for the seagulls. It became my little ritual.

The sea breeze cleared my thoughts better than any therapist ever could. I didn’t have to wear designer clothes or sit up straight or hold my breath when someone glanced my way. Just the wind, the waves, and the sound of my own heartbeat.

I found a job at the local learning center helping immigrant kids and teens study English and prep for their GEDs.

They called me Miss Rose, and it made me pause the first few times until I got used to it. The kids were sweet. Honest, but sweet.

They didn’t know where I came from or who I used to be, and I didn’t offer it up.

One morning, I was picking up groceries at the corner store when the cashier, a woman with short gray curls and kind eyes, scanned my items and gave me a once-over.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked, sliding a can of soup across the scanner.

I nodded. “Just needed a fresh start.”

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