Pregnant By My Enemy's Fiancé

The taxi is silent, except for the soft hum of the tires against the pavement. My face is still wet, mascara streaking down my cheeks like a dam just broke. I can't remember the last time I cried this much, if I’ve ever.I sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my hand, but it’s no use. I’m ugly crying, sobbing like I’m the main character in some tragic romance movie.Then I hear Callie’s voice, as always, the grounding force I need even when I’m falling apart. “You know, I told you not to trust someone named Monty,” she says, her voice surprisingly blunt.I laugh through the tears, a shaky, choked laugh that sounds more like a sob than anything remotely joyful. “You did,” I reply, voice breaking. “But I was stupid enough to ignore the warning signs.”Callie doesn’t try to sugarcoat things. She just keeps it real, even when it’s harsh. “Monty sounds like a walking red flag wrapped in a cheap suit,” she adds, leaning back in her seat, her arms crossed. “Honestly, I thought the guy was

Chapter 4The elevator dings, and we step out into a hallway that screams luxury. Dark wood floors, minimalist black sconces casting moody shadows, and a single abstract painting that probably costs more than my Louboutins. He unlocks the door with a press of his thumb, of course it’s biometric, and I step inside like I’ve crossed into another realm.His penthouse is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, glittering like a million secrets. The furniture is sleek and masculine: leather, steel, rich walnut. There’s a fireplace, not electric, a real one, and bookshelves that stretch so high they need a ladder. The air smells like cedar and bergamot and man.And I thought I had taste.“You live here?” I ask, stupidly, because obviously he does.He smirks like he knows exactly how impressive it is, but won’t say it. “Champagne?”I nod before my brain catches up with my mouth. He disappears into the kitchen, and when he comes back, he's holding a bottle that looks mo

Chapter 6“So... you’re telling me,” Emily says slowly, her fork frozen mid-air, “that you hooked up with Axton freaking Rowe?”I blink. “Who?”Callie actually chokes on her mimosa. “You don’t know who Axton Rowe is?”“No? Should I?”“How the hell did I not recognize him.” Callie mumbles to herself, wiping her chin. She brushes a loose curl of her brown hair away from her face. It’s a bit frizzy today from the Sunday heat, curling up in little tendrils around her shoulders, her fingers tangling with it in frustration.Emily leans back in her chair, her glossy black hair perfectly straight and shiny, just a little too perfect. She’s doesn’t have to spend hours trying to detangle her hair every morning like me. She looks me dead in the eye, unblinking.“Girl, he’s only the CEO of Rowe Global, the luxury real estate empire that literally owns half the Upper East Side. He’s richer than God and twice as pretty. And didn’t he date that actress? The one with the weird eyebrows?”“Oh my god,”

I wake up with the kind of headache that makes me think I deserve everything bad that’s ever happened to me. The sun’s too aggressive for a Tuesday, or whatever day it is, and there’s a sour taste in my mouth .I reach for my phone, knock it off the nightstand, groan, fish it out from under the bed like a gremlin, and finally hit play on the voicemail that’s been haunting me for twenty-four hours straight."Hey, Char… I need to tell you something. I—”Click.That’s it. That’s all I get.I close my eyes and feel a slow panic blooming in my chest. My heart starts skipping like it owes someone money.Because what does he need to tell me? Is it about her? Is she pregnant? Am I pregnant? Did I catch something? Did I GIVE someone something?Suddenly, I’m sweating.He knows I’m obsessive. He knows I spiral. This is premeditated emotional terrorism.I sit up like my butt is on fire and I blink at the wall. Then I do what every emotionally responsible adult does in times of emergency. I op

“Elle Rivera?” The woman says again in her chirpy voice.I drop my mustard-drenched hotdog like it's on fire, resisting the urge to puke.Elle Rivera.Right. That name. That stupid, fake name I gave the sketchy clinic."Hi! Just calling to let you know we got your results from the routine screening," says the nurse. Her voice is too cheery, cheerier than anyone delivering a potential death sentence should be. "The doctor would like to go over them with you in person.”In person. Not over the phone. Not in a cute little email with emojis and non-threatening language. In person. Which in medical speak, means either:A) You’re about to die.B) You have something so infectious, so deadly, the CDC wants to name it after you.“Tomorrow?” I say, voice shaking like a leaf.“Yup. We’re open round the clock. Anytime is fine!”Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Casual death window.I hang up and blink at the hotdog like it betrayed me. My hands are clammy and I can feel Emily’s eyes burning into my soul.“