Fiona woke on couch with a crick in her neck and the faint sll of vanilla candles still clinging to the blanket. Sunlight cut through the half-open blinds in sharp, accusing stripes. She lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling cracks ,one hand resting on her stomach. She pressed back gently, needing the reminder that sothing in her life was still real, still hers, still untouched by earlier wreckage.Her baby her secret.
The secret sat in her chest like a live wire hot, humming, impossible to ignore. She wasn’t ready for the questions, the concern, the pity, the judgnt. She wasn’t ready for the world to know she was carrying Martin Mole’s child after one reckless night she couldn’t even regret.
She checked her phone—5.10 p.m.No ssages from Martin. Just silence.
*Bosses look after their workers.*
The words looped in her head, each replay twisting the knife deeper. She’d let him kiss her in an elevator. Let him touch her until she ca apart moaning his na. Let herself believe for one reckless, stupid heartbeat that it ant sothing. And he’d reduced it to company policy.
She sat up slowly, blanket pooling around her waist. She showered, dressed in soft black leggings and an oversized charcoal sweater that swallowed her fra, tied her hair back, and stared at herself in bathroom mirror.
Tomorrow she had to go back to work.
Tomorrow she had to face him.
The grand Voss Éclat inclusivity event was in two months her first major project since starting, the one she’d poured every spare thought into. She couldn’t just quit. Not yet. Not when the bump was still small enough to hide under blazers and loose blouses. She could endure two months. She could smile at etings, nod at his emails, pretend the elevator never happened. She could survive until the event was over, until she had enough saved to walk away before anyone noticed her stomach starting to show.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Marcus.
Her stomach dropped.
She stared at the screen his na glowing like a warning.
She almost didn’t answer.
But she was tired of running.
She swiped to accept.
"Fiona," Marcus said imdiately, voice smooth but edged with sothing sharp. "We need to talk."
She leaned against the sink.
"I have nothing to say to you."
A pause.
"I heard what happened at the mall ."
Fiona’s grip tightened on the phone.
"Clara called crying. Said Martin Mole threatened her entire family because she slapped you. Said he acted like you were his. Like you belonged to him."
Fiona laughed short, bitter.
"She slapped . He stopped her. That’s all you need to know."
Marcus’s voice dropped lower.
"What’s your relationship with him?"
The question landed like a punch.
Fiona closed her eyes.
"There is no relationship."
"Bullshit," Marcus snapped. "You don’t let a boss threaten soone’s family over a slap unless—"
"Unless what?" Fiona cut in, voice cold. "Unless he’s a decent human being? Unless he doesn’t tolerate violence against his employees? Pick one, Marcus. You’re the one who taught how little people an to powerful n."
Silence.
Then, quieter:
"Did you ever love ?"
Fiona’s laugh was broken.
"I loved you so much I let you destroy . And then I survived you. That’s more than you ever did for ."
Marcus exhaled—rough, frustrated.
"Fiona—"
"Leave the hell alone," she said, voice steady for the first ti in weeks. "Don’t call . Don’t text . Don’t send Clara to do your dirty work. We’re done. We’ve been done since the night you chose her."
She hung up.
Powered the phone off.
Set it face-down on the counter.
Then she sank to the floor back against the cabinets, knees to her chest, hands over her stomach.
She did not want to cry.
But the tears ca anyway.
Because tomorrow she had to go back.
Tomorrow she had to see Martin.
Tomorrow she had to pretend she wasn’t carrying his child.
Tomorrow she had to endure.
The grand event was coming. The inclusivity campaign she’d been building from the ground up the one that would showcase real voices, real stories, real change. She’d fought for every line item, every testimonial, every budget approval. She couldn’t walk away before it launched. Not when it was the first thing she’d created that felt like it mattered more than her pain.
She’d wear looser blazers. She’d avoid Martin’s office. She’d keep her head down.
Martin pushed open the heavy oak door of his villa, the sting of the mall drama clinging to him like damp fabric. The foyer light was already on warm, golden, wrong. He froze.
Katherine Thorne stood in the archway to the living room, arms crossed, platinum hair catching the chandelier light like a halo she didn’t deserve. She wore a silk slip dress the color of midnight, barefoot, like she belonged.
"Who let you in?" His voice was low, exhausted, edged with steel.
Katherine smiled slow, practiced, confident.
"I’m your fiancée rember , they let in."
Martin exhaled through his nose, unbuttoning his coat with deliberate movents.
"Well, just because I didn’t say anything about this whole arrangent doesn’t an I agree to it."
Her smile faltered, but only for a second.
"Your father agreed. Our families agreed. The rger "
"The rger is business," he cut in. "This " he gestured between them " is not. I never asked for you. I never wanted you. And I’m done pretending otherwise."
Katherine stepped closer, voice softening into sothing almost pleading.
"Martin, we could be good together. Powerful. Perfect."
He looked at her really looked.
Then past her, toward the dark windows reflecting rain-streaked glass.
"No," he said quietly. "We couldn’t."
He turned toward the stairs.
"Get out."
Katherine’s smile vanished.
User Comments
0 comments from readers