Apologies, Mr Playboy. I'm Pregnant.

It was 1 a.m., and the world was fast asleep-but not Joyce Albert. She was waiting outside La Reserve Hotel for a certain playboy to be done having a good time.

"Camille, I'm doing this for you," she mumbled to herself, tapping her fingers on her shoulders. Her friend's only shot at escaping death row depended on her getting pregnant-and Joyce knew it.

She might not have shown it when her friend requested the impossible from her, but she knew what Camille had asked wasn't morally right.

But-

Camille had been there for her, many more times than she could count. It was Camille who saved her from her abusive father and made sure he never laid a finger on her again. It was Camille who implored Mr David Owens to send her to school. And still Camille who protected her from bullies.

To her, her childhood, teenage years, and even her youth were memorable because of Camille. And so, she had to do anything to save her friend from the grasp of death-even if it meant going against her morals.

"The money?" a voice asked from behind her. Joyce turned around, breathing a sigh of relief. She thought the lady might have gone back on her word.

"I have to see it first," Joyce said, trying her best to appear composed. "Is it in good condition?"

The lady, barely clad in anything, nodded. "Yeah, I did exactly as you instructed. Stored it just as you wanted-still warm and fresh."

"And were you caught?"

"Nope. Everyone was high and having a good time. None of them noticed I was saving some of his sperm for later. Now give me my money so I can get the fuck out of here?" the stripper hissed, pushing the small plastic container into Joyce's hand.

Joyce pulled out a brown envelope filled with cash and handed it to the lady.

"If you need more sperm, call me," the stripper winked, walking away.

Joyce brought out a small flask from inside her bag-Camille had instructed her to get one that matched human body temperature. That way, the sperm would stay viable for at least an hour.

After tightly shutting the flask, Joyce rushed out of the hotel. A taxi was already waiting, so she got in, and the driver sped off. She had already used up seven minutes with the stripper. It would take five more to reach the prison.

Joyce held the flask in her hand and murmured, "I can make it."

The driver didn't stop at the front gate of the prison; instead, he pulled up at the back door, where an officer was waiting for her.

She handed the flask to the officer, with a brown envelope tucked underneath it.

The officer coughed, glancing around as he slipped the envelope into his pocket. "I'm to believe whatever's in here is a little snack, right?"

"I'm paying you to believe so," Joyce replied, staring him down. "You have to get it to her now."

"Of course..."

The officer walked into the prison, then handed the flask to the female warden.

"Give this to the new inmate-Inmate 275. And do it now."

The female warden stared at the flask suspiciously, then back at the officer. "What's inside?" she asked.

The officer brought out the brown envelope, split the money in half, and handed her a share.

"That's a lot of money. Should I be worried about what's in the flask?" the warden asked, eyeing the cash.

"Do you want it or not? Last time I checked, you never cared even if it was a bomb being smuggled in." The officer raised an eyebrow, ready to take the money back.

If she wouldn't do the job, there were plenty of others who would-for less. After all, the government didn't pay them enough to be upright officers.

The warden exhaled, weighing the money in her palm. "Fine. I'll deliver it."

Truthfully, she didn't want to know what was in the flask. If she did, it would mean she was indirectly involved.

She walked briskly past the countless cells, holding the flask as if it belonged to her, nodding to guards as they greeted her.

"Inmate 275," she called, using her baton to strike the iron bars of Camille's cell.

Camille stood up from her bed and walked to the gate. The warden handed her the flask, then turned and left.

Camille opened the flask and walked back to her bed. Inside was a small plastic container-containing the sperm of Pierce Landon, son of General Landon.

There was also a note from her friend:

'I did exactly as you instructed. The sperm should be alright. Now, do what you have to do-and make sure the real murderer of your father won't have a place to hide in this world.'

Camille read the note with a smile on her lips.

'Camille Owens, you have been found guilty of the crime of murder under Section 365 of the Sovereign Republic of Ventria 210.2. According to Section 365 of our law, a person who commits murder is punishable by death. The evidence presented before this court has left no doubt as to your guilt. Therefore, it is the duty of this court to impose the sentence prescribed by law. Camille Owens, you are hereby sentenced to death for the murder of David Owens.'

She was found guilty of killing her father-there was a glass lodged in her father's throat and it had her fingerprint. But Camille wasn't about to take the punishment for a crime she didn't commit.

She held the small plastic container in her hand and murmured, "I hope this works. It has to."

⸻

Two Months Later

Camille followed the warden as she was led to the execution grounds. She had no fear in her-because her plan had worked.

She'd noticed the signs: fatigue, nausea, the absence of her period. And today, it would be confirmed. For the first time in her life, she was glad she didn't study business as her father had wanted-but medicine instead. Her knowledge was what was saving her now.

You'd expect an execution ground to look more ominous, Camille thought, walking into the nicely decorated room. It looked nothing like her cell. It resembled a five-star hotel-minus the luxury bed.

"I want the last thing a prisoner on death row sees to be a beautiful world," explained the man seated in a large black armchair, who appeared to be in charge of her execution.

"You can call me Mr Steven," he added.

Camille couldn't explain why, but the smile on his face irked her-just like the dark suit he was wearing.

"Sit over there," the warden said to Camille, pointing to a small dining table made for one.

Camille sat down, wondering if she should play her hidden card now or wait.

Before her was what looked like an open kitchen. With curiosity, she watched a man dressed in white chef's clothing step out. He stood before her and bowed lightly.

"Good evening, Ms Camille Owens. My name is Zach, and I'll be your private chef tonight."

"You can order anything you want, and I'll prepare it right away," Chef Zach said, smiling brightly.

At the mention of food, her stomach rumbled. But Camille was no fool, she was told she would be poisoned. So wasn't it convenient that her executioner offered her food?

"I was told I'd be poisoned, and I just wondered if my food would have poison it," Camille replied.

"Does it matter?" Mr Steven asked.

"Yes, it does-because I don't plan on dying tonight," Camille said calmly, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I'm pregnant,"

Mr Steven laughed. "Couldn't you come up with a more believable lie? You can't be pregnant. You were examined when you were brought here."

"Then check again," Camille shrugged.

Mr Steven turned to the chef. "Feed her the poison directly if she won't eat."

"I guess you won't mind explaining to the General why you murdered his grandchild."

Mr Steven's face darkened. "Give her the poison now," he snapped.

The chef grabbed the bottle that held the poison and walked toward Camille.

Her heartbeat accelerated. She stared at Mr Steven, fear clawing up her throat- but she showed none of it.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice steady. "But everyone knows how desperate the General is for an heir. When he comes for your head, don't say I didn't warn you."

Mr Steven could tell she wasn't lying. Her voice and her eyes told him she was serious.

With a groan, he barked, "Fetch the doctor. Now."

The warden left. Minutes later, she returned with the doctor, who immediately got to work. A needle pricked Camille's arm, drawing blood swiftly.

"Make sure the results are accurate. If you get it wrong, your head and mine will be on the line."

The doctor nodded and left.

Mr Steven turned to the warden. "Take her to her cell. In three hours, we'll know if she's telling the truth-or just a really good liar."

The warden led Camille back through the prison and locked her in again.

Camille heard nothing nothing the entire day. She was restless. Had she misread the signs? Was she really not pregnant? The thoughts clawed at her.

But just as she was about to lose hope, she heard:

"Inmate 275."

Camille stood and walked to the gate. The warden unlocked her cell.

"Follow me."

She was led through long corridors, metal doors, and finally, to a secret exit at the edge of the prison.

Outside, a black limousine waited.

"I don't know how you did it, but your test came back positive," Mr Steven said, standing beside the car. "But I should let you know-the General isn't as nice as you think. If that child isn't his grandson, you'll wish you had died in that room."

Camille said nothing and got into the car.

As the engine roared to life and they drove out of the prison, Camille had no time to enjoy the view of Ventria.

She was about to play a game-one where her chances were fifty-fifty.

Her hand settled over her stomach.

"Is this really the only way?" she whispered.

But she knew-there was no other choice. Her plan was already in motion.

She sighed, staring at her reflection in the tinted window. The woman she had become stared back.

"Well... time to meet my baby's father-and grandfather."