Lahat ng Kabanata ng Pregnant by my Ex-Boyfriend’s Father: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

Alexander POVI came to the mall for one reason.Because I knew Aria was here.My detective had seen her.I told myself I did not need to come.That giving her space was the right thing.But the distance between us is killing me.I was heading toward the men’s section when I saw a flash of silk near the baby items aisle.My steps stopped before my brain caught up.Aria.She was reaching for a high shelf, stretching a little, then—She winced.Her hand rose to her shoulder and the pain on her face punched straight through my chest.Before I could think, I was beside her, my hand on her shoulder, steadying her.The warmth of her skin shot through me. Familiar. Unwelcome.I had no right to crave it.She turned and her eyes widened, then turned cold immediately.Of course.“Are you stalking m…?” she began.I kept my tone even. “Aria, I am the CEO of one of the biggest companies in this country. Why would I commit a crime like stalking you. We met by chance.”She did not buy it. Not even a

Aria POVThe small, silver object on the floor was not a listening device. It was a cufflink.I picked it up, turning the metal over in my numb fingers. Etched into the polished silver was a single, stylized letter: A. B. Alexander's initial. I had picked it up after the one night stand to find who the mysterious man was.I tossed the cufflink onto the nightstand and went to bed.Morning sunlight filtered into the room, brushing warm lines across my face. I blinked myself awake, feeling the familiar heaviness in my body. The slight pressure in my lower belly reminded me again that something small was living inside me.I stretched and sat up slowly. Before anything else, I stood in front of my mirror.My reflection stared back. My eyes looked softer these days, sleepier too. My waist was still there, but my stomach had a small gentle curve. Not obvious under clothes but clear enough to me. I placed my palm over it and exhaled.This is real.I pushed my hair back and stepped closer, tur

I closed my eyes for a second. In my mind, I was back in that room alone, tired, trying to outrun a memory that kept returning no matter how many times I tried to bury it. “I felt like something inside me was breaking,” I said. “And the only way to stop it from shattering completely was to put it on paper.” She breathed out softly, like she didn’t want to disturb the moment. “That,” she said, “is why people connect with your work. It’s real.” The compliment didn’t make me blush. It made me swallow hard. Because hearing someone call my pain “real” instead of “dramatic,” “messy,” or “my fault” felt like a kind of forgiveness I didn’t know I needed. The conversation flowed easier after that. She asked about my writing routine, and I admitted I didn’t have onethat most of the manuscript was written in midnight bursts when emotions flooded too fast to control. She laughed kindly, not mockingly. “That’s still a routine,” she said. “It’s just an honest one.” We talked for almost

There was a pause. The kind that tells you someone is choosing their next words carefully. “The summary,” he said finally, “is that I got you an assistant.” I sat up straighter. “You what?” “She’s one of the best,” he said. “Her name is Leah. She has worked with Teni Lawson, Maya West, Amara Blake, and two media personalities you like. She will make your life easier. And safer. And she will help you manage this… attention.” My brows pulled together. “Alex—” “I know you don’t want anything from me,” he cut in. “I know. But let me do this. Consider it part apology, part… responsibility. You’re stepping into something big, Aria. You need support.” I stared at the melting ice cream in my cup. I did need help. The virality. The messages. The unexpected invitations. And after today’s messy podcast interview, I knew I wasn’t prepared for the public world. Still… “I’ll think about it,” I said quietly. His voice dropped lower. Softer. “Okay.” We stayed silent for a few seconds. N

Before I could gather enough courage, a volunteer called my name.“Aria Dane? You’re up in five. Let’s mic you.”My stomach twisted.I allowed the sound engineer to clip the mic over my dress. My hands shook slightly. Leah whispered, “Breathe,” and placed a supportive palm on my shoulder.The stage lights glowed through the curtain. I could hear the audience murmuring.This was real.THE PANELWhen I stepped onto the stage, the air hit me first- cool, conditioned, scented with some expensive diffuser the organizers probably imported from France.Then the crowd.Rows and rows of faces. Some smiling. Some curious. Some recording already.My throat tightened, but the moderator gave me a warm nod.“Welcome to our session on narrative vulnerability,” she began. “Today we have the viral sensation herself, Aria Dane.”Applause.Actual applause.I forced a smile, walked to my seat, and crossed my ankles before my nerves made me kick over the table.The discussion began.“Aria,” the moderator