Mr.Cedrick Hendrikson the father of my child

By the time the second bottle of champagne exploded, the party had become even louder.

To everyone at Westbridge, Luca was the untamable racing captain who had escaped his girlfriend’s leash for another thirty days. To me, he was the man I had finally decided to stop waiting for.

Luca had always resisted responsibility. Now that we were in our final year, his father wanted him to plan his career, while his professors expected him to quit dangerous racing and finish our senior design project.

These thirty days were the only time each year he believed he owed nothing to anyone. Although he looked down on the racing team’s crude parties, he never missed their annual “Back on the Market” celebration.

Luca and I met in New York when we were fifteen. He was the reckless boy who rode his motorcycle onto campus. I was the straight-A student who never lost a jewelry design competition.

His wildness and my composure made us Westbridge’s most unlikely couple.

We started dating at eighteen. At first, our love burned so fiercely that I could not imagine anything extinguishing it.

Then, on our first anniversary, I had just blown out the candles when Luca spoke.

“Elena, we’ve known each other for years, and now we’ve been together for an entire year. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Why would it?”

“Because we’re choosing the next several decades of our lives before we’re even twenty.”

He watched me across the candlelight, his dark eyes restless.

Then he crossed the room and trapped me between his body and the table. His lips brushed my collarbone as he lowered his voice.

“What if we take a thirty-day break every year?”

I went still.

“For those thirty days, we’ll both be single. No calls, no questions, and no interfering with anyone the other person dates. If either of us finds someone better, we let each other go. If we still come back after thirty days, we’ll know we’re together because we choose each other—not because we’re afraid to leave.”

I stepped back so quickly that I knocked the cake onto the floor. Bright frosting splattered across the tiles.

Luca’s arms fell empty. His jaw tightened, but anticipation shone in his eyes.

“Say yes. Please.”

I should have refused.

But I was eighteen, proud, and terrified that admitting I was afraid to lose him would make him want his freedom even more.

“All right.”

The tension instantly left his shoulders. He pulled me into his arms and kissed my hair.

“It’s only a game. I’ll come back.”

His voice softened.

“On the thirty-first day, I’ll still choose you.”

That first break nearly destroyed me.

I refused to contact him, but I obsessively checked his social media and searched every photograph his teammates posted.

I tortured myself wondering whether he had held another woman’s hand, kissed her, or taken her to bed. Every suggestive picture and whispered rumor opened a new wound.

During the day, I attended class and finished my assignments with my usual composure. At night, I woke alone in our cold bed, shaking.

One night, I could no longer bear it and called him.

Luca answered immediately. He did not complain that I had broken our agreement. When he heard something wrong in my breathing, he began telling me one of the childish bedtime stories he used to tell me in high school.

He kept talking until I stopped trembling.

“Elena,” he asked quietly, “is this month too hard for you?”

The next day, with three days remaining, he came home early.

I thought he had finally understood how much the arrangement hurt me. I believed we would never do it again.

The following year, I booked a restaurant for our anniversary and deliberately avoided mentioning the agreement.

After dinner, Luca placed his apartment key on the table.

“Elena, rules are rules. If we cut it short, the agreement means nothing.”

That was when I understood.

He had come back early because he missed me, but he had never intended to give up his freedom.

The same thing happened every year. Luca insisted on possessing every minute of those thirty days. If he lost even an hour, he acted as though something had been stolen from him.

Over time, our private agreement became the most notorious annual scandal at Westbridge.

Every year, the racing team opened an anonymous betting pool. The odds that we would reunite were even.

The odds that we would finally break up were one hundred to one.

A cloud of sweet perfume approached. Natalie dropped into the seat beside me and lifted her drink.

“What did you bet on this year?”

“I’m only here to watch.”

It was a lie.

Everyone in that room was betting that I would forgive Luca on the thirty-first day.

This time, I had placed everything on us never getting back together.