All Chapters of Pregnant By My Enemy's Fiancé: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

I’m not blushing.Okay, maybe I am blushing, but in my defense, how does anyone not melt when their hot helicopter pilot winks at them and calls them sticky like it’s a pet name instead of a personality flaw?Have I mentioned he’s hot?Julian elbows me hard as we step onto the tarmac, where the helicopter gleams under the London sun like a smug little insect made of money. The air smells faintly of jet fuel and sunshine, and the blades are already spinning in slow motion, casting long, flickering shadows across the landing pad.“You’ve got a crush,” Julian sings under his breath.“I do not,” I hiss, adjusting my sunglasses to hide the flaming embarrassment crawling up my neck. “He just-he startled me.”“He startled you into flirting with your whole face?”I swat at him. “This is a work trip. I’m here to be professional and photogenic.”“Mission halfway accomplished.”We walk toward the helicopter, our steps echoing across the concrete, and that’s when a voice calls out behind us.“Tho

I don’t move.Not even a twitch.The phone is still pressed to my cheek like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to Earth. My robe is half-slipped off my shoulder, my toes are pointed dramatically in my sparkly flip-flops, and I’m 90% sure my heart is performing Swan Lake inside my chest.For one brief, deranged second, I think it might be Theo.That he’ll say something stupid and British like, “Hey, Sticky, sorry I vanished. Got abducted by MI6,” and then I’ll cry and scream and probably fall in love again.“…Hello?” I repeat, softer this time. The breeze from the poolside flutters the hem of my robe, but I barely register it.A pause. Then, “Char?”The voice is familiar in the way that mold in your shower is familiar, gross, clinging, impossible to fully get rid of.Monty, of course it’s him.I roll my eyes so hard I nearly dislocate something. “Monty,” I sigh, letting his name slither out like an old curse.The air smells like chlorine and citrus cleaner, everything is dim excep

The only way I can describe my outfit right now is pastel elegance. I’m talking full-on floral daydream: flared tea-length dress covered in soft pink roses, a matching pillbox hat with a little netted veil thing (because why not), pearl gloves with matching earrings, and heels so dainty I could cry.I even curled my hair in those vintage waves that take five years off your life to perfect.Do I look like someone who’s about to take down a cheating ex, a fake fiancée, and potentially seduce a helicopter pilot?No.I look like someone’s delicate niece who lives in a literal dollhouse and drinks tea with ghost children. But it’s fine. It's all part of the look. Theo’s been texting me since last night, I woke up to “Still trouble?” followed by a winky face, which made me squeal into my pillow like a deranged Victorian princess. So yeah. I needed to feel hot.And I did feel hot. Right up until I got to the garden party.The moment Julian and I step into the venue, it’s clear I missed the v

I don’t remember walking out of his room.One second, he’s telling me to “get out” like I’m the villain in his tragic little opera, and the next, I’m standing in the elevator, fists clenched, teeth grinding, heartbeat screaming louder than my thoughts.Julian waits by the doors like a loyal golden retriever, calm and gentle-eyed, like he doesn’t realize my entire chest is burning down from the inside. “Char—”“Bar,” I snap.He blinks. Nods. Doesn’t ask questions.The hotel bar is dimly lit and moody, like it was designed specifically for heartbreak and overpriced cocktails.Everything smells like cedarwood and quiet resentment, and the leather seats creak under me like even they’re too exhausted to comfort.Julian escorts me in and stays long enough to order me a drink, vodka soda, boring and clean, but I wave it away and order a gin and tonic instead.I hate gin. It tastes like someone juiced a pine tree and called it classy. But somehow it fits tonight. Sharp, dry, bitter. Like me.“

I don’t remember falling asleep, I just remember the cold and his absence.The sheets are still tangled around my legs, still faintly warm on the side where he lay, but he’s gone.The sheets still smell like him and my body still aches in that way that makes me feel stupid. My thighs are sore, my lips are swollen, and my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out with a spoon.His side of the bed is empty. Of course it is.I stare at the ceiling in the dark, eyes burning, body heavy and sticky and useless, like if I move I might fall apart completely.But then I do move.I sit up too fast and regret it immediately. My head spins, and my chest tightens, and there’s a sound somewhere between a sob and a cough that claws its way out of my throat before I can stop it. I press the heel of my palm to my face, hard, like I can push everything back in.My eyes are puffy, the room is dark, and the clock on the nightstand says 02:04 a.m.I pull the covers tighter around myself like they can shield