Pregnant By My Ex-Boyfriend's Father

The champagne was expensive.

I knew this because I'd spent an hour at the wine store, debating between bottles I could barely afford, before the sales clerk took pity on me and pointed to the one with the fancy gold label. "Anniversary?" he'd asked with a knowing smile.

"Three years," I'd confirmed, trying not to wince at the price tag.

Now, standing outside the apartment with that same bottle clutched in one hand and my work bag sliding off my shoulder, I couldn't help but smile. James was going to love this. He always said I worried too much about money, that his family could afford anything we wanted. But this—this surprise—was from me. My choice. My celebration of us.

I checked my phone. Six-fifteen. I'd managed to leave work nearly three hours early by finishing the Henderson presentation ahead of schedule. James wouldn't be expecting me until nine at the earliest.

The image in my mind was perfect: candlelight, the champagne chilling, me in the new lingerie I'd hidden in my desk drawer at work. Maybe tonight would finally be the night he'd propose. We'd talked about it enough. His mother had even started making pointed comments about grandchildren at the last family dinner.

My key turned smoothly in the lock. The apartment was quiet. Good—he was probably in his office, lost in whatever project he'd been obsessing over lately. I'd have time to set everything up.

I kicked off my heels in the entryway, leaving them in a careless heap that James would normally complain about. Tonight, I didn't care about being perfectly proper. Tonight was about us.

The kitchen was spotless, exactly as I'd left it this morning. I set the champagne in the fridge and pulled out the ingredients for his favorite meal—seared tuna with wasabi aioli. My feet ached from the heels I'd worn all day, but the exhaustion of pulling double shifts at work this month would be worth it when I saw his face.

That's when I heard it.

Laughter. Female laughter. Coming from the bedroom.

My stomach dropped.

He's watching something, I told myself, even as my heart started pounding. A movie. A video call with his sister.

But I knew Melissa's laugh. This wasn't Melissa.

And there were two different female voices.

My feet moved before my brain could catch up, carrying me down the hallway toward our bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Golden lamplight spilled into the dark corridor. More laughter. And then—

"James, you're insatiable."

A high-pitched giggle.

"Best anniversary gift ever."

My hand pushed the door open.

The scene before me moved in slow motion, like my brain needed extra time to process what my eyes were seeing. James—my James—was on our bed. Our bed, with the sheets I'd just washed yesterday, under the framed photo of us from our trip to Napa.

He wasn't alone.

Two women. One blonde, one brunette. All three of them tangled together in various states of undress. The blonde was wearing what looked like lingerie from the expensive boutique James's mother frequented. The brunette had her hand—

I made a sound. Something between a gasp and a whimper.

Three heads turned toward me.

For one frozen moment, nobody moved. The blonde's eyes went wide. The brunette grabbed for a sheet. And James—James just stared at me with an expression I'd never seen before. Not guilty. Not apologetic.

Annoyed. Like I was interrupting something.

"Bella!" He scrambled up, dislodging the women. "It's not what it looks like."

The laugh that escaped my throat was sharp and brittle. "It looks like you're screwing two women on our anniversary."

"Babe, I can explain—"

"Our anniversary," I repeated, my voice climbing higher. My eyes found the nightstand. The champagne bottle. The same gold label I'd spent an hour agonizing over. Empty now, lying on its side. "That's my champagne."

"What? Bella, that's what you're worried about right now?"

The blonde wrapped herself in our sheets—my sheets—and scooted toward the edge of the bed. "Maybe we should go, James."

"No." James held up a hand. "This is my apartment. She's the one who came home early."

Something in my chest cracked. "Your apartment?"

"You know what I mean." He had the audacity to look impatient. "Bella, be reasonable. We can talk about this like adults."

"Adults." I tasted the word, bitter on my tongue. "Adults who promised to be faithful?"

"Oh, come on." James grabbed a pair of boxers from the floor. "It's not like we're married. You're never adventurous enough, anyway. What did you expect?"

The brunette made a small, uncomfortable noise. At least one of them had the decency to look ashamed.

"Get out." My voice came out calmer than I felt. Cold. Distant. Like I was watching this happen to someone else.

"Bella—"

"Not you." I looked at the two women who were scrambling for their clothes. "You two. Get. Out."

They didn't need to be told twice. The blonde grabbed her dress, the brunette her shoes, and they practically fled past me into the hallway. I heard the front door open and close within thirty seconds.

The silence they left behind was deafening.

James pulled on his boxers, then his jeans. He didn't even have the grace to look uncomfortable. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting." I nodded slowly, like the word made perfect sense. Like my entire world hadn't just imploded. "I'm overreacting."

"We're not married, Bella. I'm allowed to—"

"Sleep with other women? On our anniversary? In our bed?"

"My bed." The correction was quick, automatic. "This apartment is in my name. The furniture is from my family's storage. Even the sheets—"

"I bought those sheets." My voice cracked. "I bought them with my own money because you complained the old ones weren't soft enough."

He had the grace to pause. But only for a second. "Look, if you want to make this into a huge thing—"

"A huge thing?" The laugh that escaped me was half-sob. "James, we've been together for three years. You told me you loved me. You told your mother we were getting serious. And now you're—what? Telling me this is normal?"

"You're so uptight." He ran a hand through his hair, the same gesture I used to find endearing. "Victoria said you probably would be."

"Victoria." The name dropped between us like a stone. "The blonde. You've done this before."

It wasn't a question.

His silence was answer enough.

The champagne bottle on the nightstand caught my eye again. I'd spent $200 on that bottle. An entire paycheck from my weekend freelance work. For what?

For this?

"I gave you everything." The words came out quieter now. "I helped you prepare for every presentation. I wrote half your reports. I networked for you at every company event. I made myself smaller so you could shine brighter."

"Nobody asked you to do that."

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath. "You're right. Nobody asked. I just... I thought that's what you did when you loved someone."

"Love?" James laughed. Actually laughed. "Bella, come on. You're cute and convenient, but let's not pretend this is some epic romance. My mom likes you because you're polite. I like you because you're... easy."

Easy.

The word landed like a slap.

"You know what?" I took a step backward, toward the door. My purse was still on my shoulder, I realized dimly. I hadn't even set it down. "You're right. I am easy. I was easy to lie to. Easy to use. Easy to cheat on."

"Bella—"

"But I'm not easy to replace." I pulled my apartment key off my keyring—the one he'd given me with such ceremony six months ago. I dropped it on the dresser. "So you'd better get started."

"Where are you going?"

"Does it matter?" I met his eyes. Really looked at him for the first time in months, maybe years. When had he become this person? Or had he always been this way, and I'd just been too blind to see it?

"You'll come back." His confidence was staggering. "You always do."

I walked out without answering.

The hallway blurred. The kitchen swam in my vision. I grabbed my heels from where I'd left them by the door, clutching them in one hand while I fumbled with the doorknob.

Behind me, I heard James call out: "You're boring in bed anyway!"

The door slammed shut on his words.

I made it to the elevator before the first sob hit. Made it to the lobby before the tears really started. Made it to the street corner before I had to stop walking because I couldn't see where I was going.

My phone buzzed. Sarah. My best friend had some kind of sixth sense for disasters.

How'd the anniversary surprise go?

I stared at the message. How did I even begin to answer that?

A car honked. Someone brushed past me, muttering about people blocking the sidewalk. The city moved around me, oblivious to the fact that my entire life had just collapsed.

Three years. I'd given him three years. And what did I have to show for it?

Nothing.

No apartment—his name was on the lease.

No savings—I'd spent everything helping him build his career.

No dignity—I'd just been dismissed like an inconvenient employee.

My phone buzzed again. Sarah calling now. I let it go to voicemail.

A hotel. I needed a hotel. Somewhere to think. Somewhere that wasn't here, on this corner, falling apart where everyone could see.

My fingers found my banking app almost automatically. My checking account showed $847. My savings—the emergency fund I'd sworn never to touch—had $3,200.

It was enough for one night somewhere nice. Somewhere far away from this street corner and that apartment and James's dismissive sneer.

The Sterling Hotel. The name appeared on my screen after a quick search. Five stars. Expensive. Exclusive. Exactly the kind of place James's family stayed at when they were in the city.

Perfect.

I flagged down a taxi before I could change my mind.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"The Sterling Hotel," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "And driver? Take your time."

As the cab pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the apartment building one last time. The windows of James's floor glowed warm and golden. Inside, he was probably already messaging Victoria, or opening another bottle of champagne, or congratulating himself on getting rid of his "uptight" girlfriend.

I turned away.

Whatever came next—whatever I decided to do or where I decided to go—it wouldn't involve James Sterling.

I was done being easy.