Pregnant by my Ex-Boyfriend’s Father

Today was supposed to be our three-year anniversary.

Three years of love, loyalty, and blind devotion.

Three years of believing Ethan Bells was my forever.

I was giddy when I walked into his apartment- arms full of flowers, gifts, and a small cake I’d baked myself. I’d planned everything perfectly: the wine, the playlist, even the moment I’d finally give him my body tonight.

It was going to be our night.

The first thing I noticed was the smell, expensive cologne mixed with vanilla candles. Then the kitchen table, set for two, plates half-finished, wine glasses still sweating. The chef must’ve left hours ago. Which meant Ethan wasn’t alone.

I told myself not to overthink it. He probably invited a friend. Maybe his business partner. Maybe…

Then I heard it.

Soft at first. Then louder.

A sound that didn’t belong to dinner or conversation.

Moans.

My chest tightened. I froze halfway up the stairs, heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else.

And then I heard it.

Her voice.

“Can your babe, that dummy Aria, ride you like this?”

It felt like my heart physically cracked open. I gripped the doorknob, trembling, before pushing it open.

And there they were.

Ethan. My boyfriend of three years.

And Chrissy Monroe, my best friend.

“Is this what I get for all these years of loyalty?” I managed, voice shaking. “You’re sleeping with my best friend?”

He didn’t even flinch. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “So what? I didn’t beg you to do all that.”

Chrissy laughed, tossing her hair like it was a movie scene.

“You think being an ideal girlfriend is enough, Aria? Maybe try being good in bed.”

The world went silent. I could hear my own heartbeat.

I spat at them, tears blurring my vision.

“You’ll regret this,” I whispered.

Ethan smirked, wiping his mouth with a towel.

“Get out. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something important? And take your dumb-ass gifts with you.”

That was it.

The final crack in everything I’d built my world around.

I grabbed my purse, left the flowers, the cake, the dreams, everything, and walked out.

The club was loud, smoky, and smelled like regret. Perfect.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, my mascara probably ruined but I didn’t care. “Give me your strongest drink,” I said.

The bartender raised a brow. “There’s one, but it’s got a little… kick. An aphrodisiac effect.”

“I don’t care,” I muttered. “Just pour.”

The first gulp burned down my throat like fire, but I welcomed the pain. At least it distracted me from the one in my chest.

As I drank, tears blurred my vision again. I thought about how Ethan had slowly stripped me of everything that made me me.

He told me to stop wearing short dresses, said he didn’t like other men looking.

He told me to stop laughing too loud, said it made me look desperate.

He told me to stop being friends with anyone he didn’t approve of.

And like a fool, I listened.

The girl who once turned heads on campus- the “It girl”- was gone.

All that was left was this version of me: broken, humiliated, and desperate to forget.

So I ordered another drink.

Two more glasses in, and the world started to tilt.

My throat burned, my chest felt weightless, and for a moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or laugh.

I told myself that’s enough.

So I went to the dance floor.

Lights flashed, the music pulsed, and the air smelled of sweat, perfume, and sin. I just wanted to move, forget everything, but a pair of hands grabbed my waist. Then another. Rough, unfamiliar, insistent.

I turned, tried to shove them off, but the music drowned my voice. Panic clawed its way up my throat as I twisted through the crowd. They followed.

I ran.

My heels clacked against the tiles, my breath ragged. Just as one of them reached for me, I spotted a half-open door and darted inside.

Silence.

Darkness.

Then a light flickered on.

He stood there- tall, broad-shouldered, water still beading down his chest. A towel hung loosely around his waist, threatening to slip with every breath. His skin gleamed under the dim suite lights, every muscle carved like he’d been sculpted from midnight itself.

My pulse stuttered.

The aphrodisiac cocktail wasn’t just a “kick”- it was a wildfire. Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading like spilled ink. My mouth went dry. I wanted to trace the rivulets of water sliding over his abs with my tongue.

God, what is wrong with me?

He didn’t move. Just watched me with eyes so dark they swallowed the light.

“You’re in the wrong room, little girl,” he said, voice low, rough, like gravel dipped in honey. “Leave. Now. Before you wake up to something you can’t handle.”

The warning should’ve sobered me.

It didn’t.

Instead, I stepped forward. My heels clicked once, twice. The air between us crackled.

“I don’t want to leave,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine- husky, desperate.

His jaw flexed. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

“Last chance.”

I didn’t take it.

My hands found his chest- hot, slick, real. I rose on tiptoes, legs trembling, and wrapped myself around him like a vine. My lips brushed the hollow of his throat. Salt and sin. I bit down soft, then harder, until he hissed.

His control snapped.

One second I was clinging.

The next, my back hit the wall, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise. The towel was gone. So were my inhibitions.

His mouth claimed mine—brutal, starving. Teeth scraped my lip. A growl rumbled from his chest as he lifted me, my dress bunching at my waist. I felt him—all of him—hard, insistent, pressing against me through the thin lace of my panties.

“Tell me to stop,” he snarled against my neck, stubble scraping fire across my skin.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

His fingers dug into my hips. The world blurred—lights, music, the thump of my heartbeat.

I tasted copper. His. Mine. Didn’t matter.

Something glinted on the floor as he carried me to the bed, a monogrammed cufflink.

A.B.

I was too far gone to care.

I was sore all night long.