Knocked Up by My Nemesis

“Where’d you disappear to Friday night?” Marla asked, leaning over my cubicle wall with her third espresso.“Home. Migraine.” I didn’t look up from my screen.“Uh-huh.” She waggled her brows. “Because someone said they saw you dancing with Andrew Drake. And by dancing, I mean… hands. Bodies. Prolonged eye contact.”I clicked aggressively into the zoning variance spreadsheet. “That someone needs glasses.”Across the atrium, Andrew stood by the espresso bar, chatting with two interns. He kissed one on the hand. The other giggled like it was a Jane Austen adaptation. I hated how his sleeves were rolled perfectly. I hated how I noticed.I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a column to design?”Marla snorted. “Fine, fine. But if he proposes during the structural review meeting, I’m calling dibs on your office.”She disappeared just as fast. I exhaled and leaned back, suddenly dizzy. Lines on the screen swam. My stomach turned.I shut my laptop and stood.I told myself it was probab

“Double oat-milk latte, extra cinnamon, no foam,” said a voice behind me.I turned, startled. Ben Carter stood there with his signature easy grin and a coffee cup extended like a peace offering.“You stalked my order?” I asked, suspicious.“You tweeted it during that zoning meeting you hated. Figured you could use the reminder of simpler times.”I accepted it warily. “You know how many zoning meetings I hate?”“That’s what makes it a gamble,” he winked.Ben was the structural engineer everyone liked—tall, decent jawline, allergic to drama. A safe guy. A good guy.Which is probably why I flinched when he brushed a crumb off my collar.In the glass atrium across the floor, Andrew was mid‑presentation, all swagger and sharp angles. He wasn’t even looking at me. Not until Ben laughed at one of my deadpan jokes.Then Andrew’s eyes flicked over. Just a second too long.I sipped the latte.After our client meeting, Andrew cornered the vitamin shelf in the break room while I pretend

“I thought you said dinner,” I said, stepping onto the rooftop.Ben smiled, sheepish but determined. “Dinner. With ambiance.”Fairy lights twinkled above. An acoustic guitarist strummed softly near the terrace railing. A server handed me a mocktail with a sprig of rosemary.I blinked. “Is this… a pitch?”“Not for a project,” he said, pulling out a chair. “For something better.”I sat, uneasy.Between courses—organic, seasonal, perfectly plated—Ben leaned in, eyes too soft, voice too smooth. “You’re the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met. Every day I think about you. Your ideas, your stubborn logic, the way you challenge people to be better.”My fork stalled mid-air.“And if I’m being honest…” he reached across the table, brushing a curl behind my ear, “I want to be part of your future. Not just on blueprints.”Panic bloomed.I stood. “Restroom.”Inside the stall, I texted Claire.**Me:** “He’s sweet. But something’s off.”**Claire:** “Safe can be nice. Safe is steady.”I

Monday arrived like a slow-motion ambush.“Another bouquet for Fiona Hayes,” chirped the receptionist, wheeling in a cart stacked with sunflowers and something lavender-scented.Marla whistled. “Carter’s going for broke, huh?”I muttered thanks and tried to disappear into my cubicle.Ben had also started showing up with lunch. Thai on Tuesday. Kale wraps on Wednesday. Chocolate-covered almonds on Thursday, “just because.”Every offering came with a warm smile and not-so-subtle glances.And every time he appeared, Andrew showed up five minutes later.“Joint review?” he asked on Wednesday, already pulling up a chair before I could say no.He scribbled corrections on Ben’s structural notes with surgical precision.“Too much flex in the load-bearing joints,” he said coolly.Ben frowned. “They passed regulation.”Andrew smiled thinly. “Regulated isn’t always resilient.”I stared between them like a referee with no whistle.By Friday, the gossip mill had spun into full hurricane

The rumors started small—just a whisper in the elevator.“Didn’t Carter’s last project fold early?”Then came the internal audits. My assistant forwarded me an old rendering from another job. Identical to Ben’s pitch for our tower. Except dated two years ago. Different client. Different city.And it wasn’t just one.I stayed late three nights in a row, combing through Ben’s submissions. By the third file, I stopped pretending it was coincidence. The invoices looked… off. Recycled line items. Rounded budgets that made no structural sense. NDA sign-offs with shaky signatures.I told Claire.“Are you sure?” she asked, voice low over the phone.“Not yet,” I said. “But it smells like rot.”I couldn’t sleep. I started marking up contracts at 2 a.m., circling numbers in red like crime scene evidence.Meanwhile, Ben kept texting—check-ins, dinner invites, more flowers. I replied with vague delays and stomachache excuses. The truth sat too heavily in my chest.Andrew noticed.“You’re