At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, my water broke without warning at a dinner party.

The chaos was immediate, but a pair of strong arms sliced through it, sweeping me off my feet. When I looked up into his face, my heart hammered against my ribs.

My rescuer was none other than Pierce Montgomery—the ex-boyfriend I'd broken up with eight months ago.

God, you have to be kidding me. Why him? The baby I was carrying was his.

Then, a terrible thought sliced through the panic: I didn't want this child to be born. Not anymore.

————————

1

I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance with my mother, Eleanor Ashford, and my sister, Olivia, at my side.

I had been chatting with a client at the dinner party when I felt a sudden, warm gush down my leg.

Olivia sprang into action, helping me lie down and propping my hips up with a velvet cushion.

By then, my gown was soaked. As for my husband… I didn’t have one. I was single, and very, very pregnant.

And the man beside me now, the one I’d just been so dramatically reunited with, was the father of my child. My ex. If I'd known this would happen, I would have pleaded with the baby not to be in such a hurry. Thirty-eight weeks was too soon.

As soon as we reached the hospital, the ultrasound results were in: the baby was in a breech position, with dangerously low amniotic fluid. The fetal heart monitor showed signs of distress, with a high risk of asphyxiation.

The doctor ordered an emergency C-section. On the gurney ride to the operating room, Pierce Montgomery held my hand in a vise grip. He leaned in, his voice a low hiss in my ear. "Willow Ashford, it's only been eight months."

"Don't..." I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. "Just... don't."

He let out a cold laugh, the sound chilling me to the bone. "You have no idea how badly I want to know who the hell this baby's father is."

When I had ended things, I was already a month pregnant. But I just couldn't bring myself to abort this child, especially not when this child was ours—mine and Pierce's.

Words failed me.

Let him misunderstand. How could I possibly begin to explain any of this? If he asked why I’d kept the baby, I’d have no answer for that either.

Any other ex might have offered comfort, but Pierce seemed intent on flaying me alive with his words. We didn't speak again during the tense pre-op preparations. Even the medical staff could sense the tension between us, thick enough to cut with a scalpel.

Being with Pierce had been a beautiful accident. During my junior year, an anonymous online design forum became all the rage in our circle. I, like so many others, was a devoted fan of a legendary designer known only as "Archangel," studying his posts and hoping for a crumb of guidance. To my shock, he actually replied to me.

He critiqued my portfolio, helped me overcome my technical hurdles, and even defended me from anonymous trolls on the forum.

One day, Archangel sent me a private message: "Maybe we should meet. I'm in New York, too."

I paced my dorm room for a full half hour, hesitating. In the end, my roommates snatched my phone and typed back, "Sure!"

My roommate Monica gushed, "God, the way he writes is so intense, Willow. I bet he's devastatingly handsome. The kind that makes your knees go weak!"

Another roommate, Pansy, added, "I think so too! If you're worried about it being a setup, we can tail you, just in case."

And so, I half-reluctantly agreed to meet Archangel at a coffee shop near campus. When Monica, Pansy, and I arrived, we all froze. It was Pierce. He was sitting at a table by the window, sipping coffee and gazing out at the street, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

Pierce was a graduate student in Columbia's architecture department—a certified genius and notoriously unapproachable. Rumor was, from his undergrad to his graduate years, he'd never once been in a relationship.

This Pierce Montgomery, a man who'd supposedly never dated anyone, was the guru from my forum!

Pansy gave me a shove from behind and a thumbs-up. I stumbled toward his table. "Uh... Pierce? Are you Archangel?"

"I am. Are you Willow?"

"Yes."

The legendary, untouchable campus heartthrob was sitting right across from me. We talked about design, about our classes. I felt like I was in a job interview—my back ramrod straight, my ankles crossed, barely daring to breathe.

It was a great conversation. As I got up to leave, Pierce suddenly called my name.

"Willow," Pierce said.

I stopped and turned back to him.

He met my eyes. "I think this could be more than just an online thing."

"Huh?" For a moment, my brain went completely blank.

By the time I left the coffee shop, my hand was intertwined with Pierce's. I saw the tips of his ears turn a faint red. My own face was burning like a hot coal.

As we walked past Monica and Pansy, their jaws practically hit the floor, their eyes tracking us until we were out of sight.

And just like that, I, Willow Ashford from the interior design department, became a campus legend. Everyone was whispering, wondering how on earth Pierce and I had gotten together.

I had to admit, no one could resist a man like Pierce—myself included. I’d even snuck into the architecture building before, just to catch a glimpse of him from a distance.

...

At the beginning of my senior year, Pierce and I won a major design competition. We decided to throw a party to celebrate, even though he was swamped with his graduation project.

"Come on, Pierce!" I pestered him, begging him to celebrate with us. He could never say no to me. After ruffling my hair, he finally caved.

At the party, our friends swarmed us with congratulations. I was so ecstatic that I ended up getting completely drunk.

It was well past midnight when Pierce carried me out and got us a room at a nearby hotel.

Drunk confidence is a dangerous thing. I only remember pushing Pierce onto the bed, clumsily fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and nibbling on his earlobe and collarbone.

At first, he just chuckled at my clumsy advances. Then, suddenly, the tables turned. He had me pinned beneath him, his kiss tinged with alcohol, possessive and absolute, igniting a fire deep inside me.

When I woke up the next day, he pointed to his collarbone with a mock-aggrieved pout, as if he'd been terribly wronged. There, on his skin, were two neat little teeth marks. My handiwork.

"Well... I'll let you bite me back..." I mumbled, pulling the covers over my head in embarrassment.

One taste, and it was impossible to stop. In the soft morning light, we tangled together once more.

Not long after, Pierce suggested I move into his apartment. I happily packed my things and moved in with him.

...

Right before graduation, Pierce flew to Europe for an architectural project. I was home alone, drowning in stress over my own final project.

That’s when a woman named Caroline Vance rang the doorbell. "I'm Pierce's stepmother," she announced.

She got straight to the point, laying out the Montgomery family's illustrious background. It turned out they were one of the top real estate developers in New York, with landmark properties all over the country.

I braced myself for the classic "you're not good enough for my son" speech, but instead, she handed me a folder.

"You're Marcus Ashford's daughter, correct?" she asked.

"Yes." My father.

Caroline offered a faint, tight smile. "Then you should take a good look at what's inside. I can see myself out."

She set down her untouched water glass and left as gracefully as she'd arrived.

Confused, I opened the folder. What could my father possibly have to do with the Montgomerys? The question echoed in my mind. As I read the documents inside, my blood ran cold.

I have a vague memory from about twenty years ago, of Mom and Dad always being busy. We lived in a large house with a beautiful garden and a wide terrace.

The house was always filled with snacks, blueprints, and model-making supplies.

All that changed one day when Dad told Olivia and me that we were moving.

Our family moved into a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. Mom and Dad went from managing a large company to opening a tiny, boutique design studio.

It wasn't until I was much older that I understood. My father's company had gone bankrupt. We couldn't afford that life anymore.

The contents of the folder pointed to one culprit: Pierce's father, Harrison Montgomery. He was the one responsible for it all.

I couldn't imagine the look on my parents' faces if I ever brought Pierce home and introduced him as Harrison Montgomery's son.

I knew nothing about the cutthroat world of business, but the "evidence" in that folder was convincing. The Montgomery family was my family's enemy.

As I stood up from the sofa, a wave of dizziness hit me, and a dull ache pulsed in my lower abdomen. The shock, I figured. Then I checked the date and realized my period was due.

Pierce was still in Europe. I had no idea when he'd be back.

I packed my bags, called a car, and moved back home. I spent the next few weeks listlessly drifting through the days, waiting for graduation and trying to ignore my shattered heart.

I sent Pierce a text: "Let's break up. Don't look for me. Don't contact my friends. I can't do this anymore. Think of me as a coward, an asshole, whatever you want. I never want to see you again. Goodbye."

Then, without waiting for a reply, I blocked his number and all his social media accounts. Afterward, I dropped a bomb in my dorm's group chat: Pierce and I were over.

My graduation project was a success, but in the two weeks leading up to the defense, I barely ate or slept. I lost a frightening amount of weight.

Mom thought it was just project stress, constantly plying me with food and encouragement. Only I knew the real reason for my anxiety: my period was over a week late.

An icy dread washed over me. I drove to a pharmacy miles from my house and bought one of every brand of pregnancy test on the shelf.

Later, as I sat on the bathroom floor staring at a row of positive results, my entire world shattered.

How did I become this cliché? The girl who gets pregnant right after a breakup?

Still, I decided to face it head-on. That night, I told my parents I was pregnant. I'd asked my sister, Olivia, and her family to come over for moral support.

As they walked in, my three-year-old niece, Natalie, ran to me, patted my stomach, and chirped, "There's a little brother in here, Auntie Willow!"

I froze. So did my parents and Olivia. A child's intuition is a terrifying thing.

Olivia recovered first. "Willow... what is Nat talking about?"

All eyes fell on the line of pregnancy tests I'd laid out on the coffee table. The silence was deafening.

Dad was the first to speak. His lips trembled with rage as he snapped, "Where is the bastard? Does he know? Are you two getting married?"

"We broke up," I whispered. "The day I came home."

He turned pale, looking like he might collapse. It took a lot of desperate pleading, but in the end, they agreed to let me keep the child.

Because of the baby, I didn't pursue an internship. Instead, I followed in Olivia's footsteps and started working at our family's design company.

In the twenty years since the bankruptcy, my family had painstakingly clawed its way back from the brink. We'd moved from the suburbs to a nice place closer to the city. The studio had grown from a 500-square-foot room into a two-story office. With nearly ten designers, we were a respected boutique firm now, not just a small-time studio.

But accidents happen. Case in point: my water breaking prematurely at an awards dinner, sending me into labor far too early.