Chapter 1: Shattered on Our Anniversary

I’m pregnant.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut—echoing inside my head, sharp and unreal. I almost laughed, like maybe if I reacted first, I could take the sting out of it. But there it was, hanging in the air, impossible to ignore. Shouldn’t this have been a secret for candlelight and whispered hopes? Instead, on our anniversary, I got knocked flat by Ethan Pierce’s old flame—his so-called white knight, Mason Lee. Only in my life.

Those words wouldn’t stop bouncing around my skull, heavy and strange, like they belonged to someone else. They clung to me, pressing on my chest with every breath. It was like they’d seeped into the air, thick and suffocating. I tried to shake them off, but they stuck, stubborn as regret.

It was supposed to be a night for celebrating, but the universe had other ideas. Mason—Ethan’s golden boy, his ex, his Omega, whatever you want to call it—came at me like he had something to prove. For a second, I wondered if he really thought he could move me. I’m taller by half a head, work out year-round. He bounced right off, landing flat on his ass with a yelp. I almost laughed—almost. But then things took a turn.

Mason’s eyes went wide, panic written all over his face. He barreled toward me again, like he was on some heroic mission—God, the drama. Maybe he thought sheer willpower could make up for all those skipped leg days. But as he grabbed my arm, his grip was surprisingly tight. Solid, if nothing else. And then—

Panic got the better of him. He yanked me, hard. For a split second, time slowed. Then the world tilted, and we both went down. Limbs tangled, hearts pounding, the stairs rushing up to meet us. I caught the scent of aftershave, the scrape of carpet, the cold bite of fear.

Everything happened in a blur—his hands clutching at my shirt. The world spun. Falling. Weightless. Out of control. Every heartbeat a jolt. Every second forever.

Ethan was quick—quick enough to catch his white knight, wrapping Mason up in a clumsy embrace. Me? I kept rolling, all the way to the first floor. My body thudded against the ground, vision streaked with cream and gold. It felt endless.

Blood soaked into the cream carpet, blooming red against the pale fibers. I could taste copper, sharp and electric. For a moment, the world narrowed to that flavor—then snapped back to Ethan’s voice.

Ethan said, “Don’t blame Mason. He’s so gentle and kind—he’d never mean to hurt you.” His words floated above me, casual, like he was reading the weather. I almost wanted to applaud his nerve.

I spat out blood, metallic and hot, and let out a low laugh. “Why would I blame him? I should thank him. After all, it’s not your child, so maybe it’s better this way.” My voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the hush that fell, but every word hit like a stone skipping across a pond. Ripples everywhere.

Ethan had completely forgotten today was our anniversary. Just—gone. I felt a hollow ache. He couldn’t even remember how many years we’d been together. I’d reminded him this morning, and he just blinked, buried in calls and texts. Like I was a background noise he’d learned to ignore.

Everyone in town says the Ramsey family’s youngest son is hopelessly in love with Ethan Pierce. That’s the rumor—whispers following us at every party, every gala, like our lives were the city’s favorite soap opera. No one cared about the truth.

But nobody knows the real story. The first time we met, Ethan came to me. He started everything. Long before the gossip, long before things fell apart.

Three years after my uncle died, my mom just… faded. Grief swallowed her whole. And then she was gone, too. The house was so empty it hurt to breathe. But before the week of mourning ended, my dad brought home a new wife and her kid. Like grief was just a speed bump on his way to a new life.

I clung to the front door, refusing to let them in. My hands were shaking, nails digging into the wood until they broke and my fingertips bled. The pain was sharp, real—almost a relief compared to the ache in my chest. The wind was cold. My breath came out ragged, every inhale burning. My hands throbbed, but I wouldn’t let go.

The very next day, my stepmom sent my mom’s most famous painting to a charity auction. Said it was to honor her memory—yeah, right. I watched strangers admire it, their voices a low hum, their eyes sliding right over everything that made it special to me.

At that point, my dad had frozen all my accounts. At the auction, I felt my knees buckle, but I didn’t fall. I just watched as my mom’s painting got sold off like a random trinket. The helplessness was a cold ache, worse than the marble floor pressing against my shoes.

Dust from the carpet made me cough, and my vision blurred. The world felt far away, muffled by grief and loss. Someone was coming toward me, but I could barely see them.

Handmade leather shoes, spotless—like they’d never touched real dirt. A hand reached down, steady and warm, pulling me to my feet. His grip was gentle, but there was strength in it. For a second, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

“A painting only matters in the hands of someone who truly cherishes it.” His voice was low, warm, almost kind. The words wrapped around me, soft as a blanket.

Back then, Ethan didn’t have the sharp edges he has now. He had this soft glow—like he hadn’t been knocked around by life yet. There was something open in his face, something that hadn’t learned to flinch.

“I’ll get your mom’s painting back for you.”

People who are drowning will grab anything that floats. Right then, Ethan was my driftwood—my only anchor in a world that wouldn’t stop shifting beneath me.

When I turned eighteen, my dad hated Ethan. I used my feelings for Ethan as a weapon, swinging them at my father every chance I got. It was messy, reckless, but it was all I had. My rebellion, my line in the sand.

I chased Ethan openly. Boldly. Didn’t care who saw or what they whispered. My heart was an open book, every page inked with his name.

Ethan was proud, standoffish—cold to everyone who tried to get close. But I was relentless, a fire that refused to die. I kept showing up, kept pushing, hoping he’d eventually see me.

When he played basketball, I brought him Gatorade. When he had class, I sat in the back. During breaks, I showed up with brownies. I was always there, a shadow trailing him, trying to break through those walls.

But in a blink, my efforts ended up as snacks for stray dogs, or his friends’ afternoon treat. I’d watch from a distance as everything I brought disappeared, swallowed up by people who didn’t even know my name. I’d clench my fists, swallow the sting, and try again the next day.

But I was young then. The colder Ethan got, the more stubborn I became. Every rejection was just fuel—another reason to try harder, push further. I was a dog with a bone, refusing to let go.

I knew Ethan liked photography, so I set my sights on buying him the latest DSLR for Christmas. I spent weeks researching, reading reviews, saving every penny I could scrape together. I pictured his face lighting up when he saw it. That image kept me going.

Because I mouthed off to my stepmom, my family cut my allowance. Suddenly, I had to hustle—waiting tables at a diner, stocking shelves at Walmart. I learned what tired really meant. My feet ached, my hands cracked, but every dollar felt like a small victory.

By the time chilblains covered all ten fingers, I finally had enough to buy that camera. My hands were raw and red, but the box in my backpack was proof I could make something happen on my own.

I waited outside his dorm late into the night. My eyelashes and hair frosted over, bones aching from the cold. The campus was dead quiet, every minute stretching out like it might never end.

Ethan finally came down, footsteps echoing on the concrete. His face was unreadable in the pale glow of the streetlights. I held out the box, hope fluttering in my chest.

That day, his face was blank, eyes dark and shuttered. There was a wall there, thicker than ever. I felt it like a punch.

“Are you that desperate for a boyfriend?” His words were cold, slicing right through me. I flinched, but he didn’t notice—or didn’t care.

He took the camera and shoved it into the arms of some other guy standing next to him. My heart dropped. The world tilted, spinning out from under me.

“I’ve introduced you to someone. Don’t bother me again.”

That night ended with me giving Ethan an uppercut—blood streaming from his nose. The shock on his face almost made it worth it. Almost.

Whether you love or hate someone, it shows in your eyes. You can try to hide it, but it leaks out—every glance, every touch, every word you choke back.

Even though I was young and dumb, it still hurt. The pain was sharp, but it faded into a constant bruise—a dull ache that never really went away.

So I got closer to the senior Ethan introduced me to. At first it was awkward, but we found our rhythm. An easy friendship, nothing more, but it soothed the sting of rejection.

I treated him like a brother. We studied together, watched movies, talked about dreams for after graduation. He was steady, dependable, always there when I needed a friend.

We’d hit up gaming cafés, playing League of Legends for hours. He’d support me as I charged ahead—he’d pop his ult, I’d follow up. We made a good team, both in the game and out.

He always saved the best gear for me. It was a little thing, but it mattered—a reminder that someone had my back, no matter what.

One night, we stayed out too late, lost track of time. Climbing over the campus fence, the dorm was still locked. We laughed, shivering in the early morning cold, trying to shake off the exhaustion.

Early winter mornings were brutal. I stomped my feet, trying to keep warm. The senior draped his letterman jacket over my shoulders. It was warm, smelled like laundry detergent and something uniquely him.

Right then, the dorm door swung open and Ethan walked out. His eyes flickered over us—blank, unreadable. Like we were just scenery.

I felt awkward. When the senior handed me his coat, he leaned in to wipe the corner of my mouth, said I had something from breakfast. His touch was gentle, almost too careful. I felt exposed, like I was on display.

But I was overthinking it. Ethan didn’t even glance at us, just walked by like we were invisible. Like he’d never known me at all.

The senior started calling me out more and more. We spent more time together, our friendship deepening with every late-night study session and shared meal. It was easy. Safe.