All Chapters of Knocked Up by My Nemesis: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The networking mixer buzzed with champagne and shallow ambition.I found her near the bar—Camila Soto, allegedly a partner in Ben’s investment circle. Tall, poised, smart enough to smell lies.“Your firm invested in Carter’s Midtown project, right?” I asked, casual, sipping tonic with lime.Camila laughed. “Ben? Please. He pitched, sure. Took our lunch, burned an hour, never showed deliverables.”“So, no money?”“God, no. We pay for results. He’s more of a… theorist.”The words dropped like bricks in my stomach.I thanked her. Walked straight to the stage.The panel was already mid-discussion: sustainable structures, green funding, the usual buzzwords. Ben was seated confidently, fielding questions with his trademark smile.“Let’s open to audience queries,” the host announced.I stepped up.“Fiona Hayes,” I said, voice clear. “Question for Ben.”He grinned. “Always a pleasure.”I held up a printout. “Can you explain why this invoice—used in your funding proposal—matches an

I moved into my grandmother’s condo the following week.No fanfare. Just me, a rental truck, and a box labeled *“Don’t Open Unless Crying.”* (It contained Oreos, three baby onesies I bought on impulse, and a playlist titled *“Try Again Tomorrow.”*)The condo was old but kind. Hardwood floors that creaked in approval. A balcony that faced the city skyline like it was listening.The doorman, James, gave me a slow nod. “Didn’t think we’d see another Hayes girl back here.”I smiled. “Just for a while.”I noticed the black sedan parked across the street that night. Didn’t think much of it—until it showed up again the next day. Same plates.One thunderstorm later, the power cut out. A transformer somewhere gave up the ghost. The whole building sighed into darkness.I lit candles and curled up on the couch, rubbing the curve of my belly—still subtle, but present. Like a secret learning to speak.Then came the knock.I opened the door to find Andrew. Soaked. Holding take-out and a por

It hit at 2:04 a.m.A cramp. Then another. Sharper. Lower. Wrong.I gripped the bathroom sink, sweat slicking my neck.“Not now,” I whispered. “Please not now.”The ER was twenty minutes away. I grabbed a coat, my phone, keys, and made it to a cab without throwing up or passing out. Barely.I didn’t call anyone.Not Claire.Not Andrew.Especially not Andrew.But as I lay there under fluorescent lights, heart racing faster than the fetal monitor, I hated the silence I’d chosen.A nurse adjusted the IV. “You came alone?”I nodded. “It’s fine.”It wasn’t.Ten minutes later, he burst through the sliding doors—shirt inside out, shoes untied, hair chaos.“Fiona Hayes,” he barked at the front desk. “Where is she?”My chest cracked.He found me, eyes wild. “You okay? Is it—”“False labor,” I murmured.He exhaled, loud, like someone had just punched him in the gut. His shoulders sagged in equal parts relief and confusion. “So you are pregnant,” he said, almost to himself. His

By now, the receptionists at Mercy Hospital knew me by name.“Fiona,” one of them smiled. “Exam Room 3 again?”I nodded. “Still not glowing.”Outside, camera flashes popped.I kept my head down, hoodie up.Until a familiar coat draped over me from behind.Wool. Warm. Cedar-scented.Andrew.He didn’t speak.He just walked beside me, one hand casually in his pocket, the other shielding me from the press like it was the most natural thing in the world.Inside the room, I stared at the ultrasound screen, blurry and shifting. A faint heartbeat echoed through the machine. My throat burned.That evening, Claire called. “You know he paid off the subcontractor fees, right?”I froze. “What?”“The bankruptcy scare. Someone covered the penalty to keep the curtain wall install on schedule. Quietly. Through a dummy account.”I pulled up the ledger. No sign of him.But then I spotted a tiny transfer.My e-signature. My authorization.Only… I never made it.I scrolled down.Memo fie

The fight wasn’t planned.But neither of us had been sleeping.A scheduling snafu delayed the steel delivery by five days. My project manager blamed Andrew’s team. Andrew blamed my contingency planner. I blamed... everything.“You went over my head,” I snapped, slamming the updated timeline on the table.He shot back, “Because your head was too busy pretending not to crack under pressure.”The room stilled. Someone dropped a pen.I stood, breathing hard. “If you want to micromanage every phase, then just say it. Own it. Stop hiding behind concern.”He didn’t flinch. “If you want to self-destruct for pride, go ahead. But don’t drag a child into that collapse.”My breath caught.The room emptied fast.He didn’t follow.He always followed.But this time... he didn’t.That night, Claire came over with a bottle of ginger beer and her laptop.“I love you, but we need to talk,” she said, tossing yearbooks and old photos on my couch. “Because that wasn’t a professional argument.