The lights in the clinic’s hallway buzzed. Too bright. Too clean. The kind of place where truth was spoken without care for what it could do to a person’s chest. Jessica sat on the edge of the chair, palms damp against her knees.The nurse’s voice had already been soft, but soft didn’t blunt the words. Eight weeks. Healthy. A strong heartbeat.Jessica hadn’t responded. Not even a nod. Just the press of her lips, tight until they went white. Her stomach twisted like something had clawed through it. She knows. Somewhere in the sleepless nights, the late sickness, the strange ache in her chest—But hearing it again, accepting it. Having it pinned down in words she couldn’t shake?That broke her.She signed the discharge papers with a shaking hand, eyes blurring over the black ink. The nurse said something else—gentle, professional, meaningless. Jessica didn’t catch it. The walls hummed louder.When she stepped outside, night hit her in the face. The wind was sharp, autumn biting into

The echo of slammed doors still rang in Jessica’s ears.She hadn’t even packed half her things when the locks clicked behind her. The Benson mansion—the fortress that had once been her sanctuary, her throne—had spit her out like rotten fruit.Her aunt’s voice still clung to her skin, cruel and cold:“You’ll bring nothing but scandal with that bastard child. We won’t let you drag this family name into the dirt any further.”Her uncle’s was worse, almost bored in its dismissal:“Take your shame somewhere else, Jessica. The company can’t afford to be associated with you now.”They hadn’t even looked her in the eye when they ordered the staff to throw her suitcases to the curb. She had stood there on the grand steps, her hands trembling around the handle of one half-zipped bag, the press’s flashes already bursting from across the gate. The family hadn’t cared.She wasn’t Jessica Benson, heiress anymore. She was Jessica Benson, disgraced, pregnant, disposable.––By the time the taxi drop

The boardroom had this smell of old wood polish mixed with power. It was sharp, suffocating, like the walls had just soaked up all those years of whispered deals and betrayals. Jessica was sitting way down at the far end of the table. Her hands pressed flat right there on the glossy surface. She could see the reflection of her tired face staring back at her. Hadn't slept a wink. Those bags under her eyes, they pretty much told the whole story. But it wasn't just exhaustion keeping her up all night. It was the text.I’m coming back. Let’s finish what we started. – M.The world could have burned and she still would’ve known exactly who sent it. Michael Kane. The guy who'd trashed her reputation, shredded her trust, left her hanging on whatever scraps of dignity she had left.And now, he was here.Those double doors creaked open, and every executive in the room sat up straight, like the devil had just strolled in. Jessica's nails bit into her palm. Michael didn't walk in like regular

The knock wasn’t polite. It banged against the flimsy door of Jessica's apartment, it was shaking the whole cheap frame, almost ready to crack it open. She stopped right in her tracks. Her hand just hung over the kettle she'd put down a second ago. Then the noise hit again. Three hard knocks, impatient bangs.Her gut knotted up tight. She figured it out already. Knew exactly who was out there.Jessica tugged the skimpy cardigan closer around her and She opened the door. The light in the hall kept buzzing and flickering over the landlord's round head. His breath came out in puffs, all foggy in the cold morning air. And that smile of his. Sour as hell. Stretched way too far across his face. Miss Benson,” he said, as if the words themselves tasted bitter. “We need to talk.”Her pulse stumbled. “It’s barely seven.”“Yes,” he said, adjusting his coat as though the conversation itself inconvenienced him. “Perfect time to discuss overdue matters before my day fills up.”He leaned one hand

The pen felt heavier than it should.Jessica’s hand hovered above the intake form, her knuckles pale from how tightly she gripped the cheap ballpoint. The receptionist’s voice still echoed in her ears—gentle, detached, as though this was just another routine checkbox.“Please fill in your emergency contact. Spouse, family member, or trusted friend.”Trusted friend.The phrase stung like glass pressed to an old wound.Her gaze drifted over the blank space under the words Name, Relation, Number. The other lines on the form had been easy—age, weeks of pregnancy, insurance details. But this one dragged her heartbeat into her throat.She whispered under her breath, almost defensively, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need one.” But she knew better. That wasn't true at all. She'd figured it out the hard way, just a few weeks back when her body gave out right there at the office desk. The whole world closing in on her until it turned pitch black. Then a nurse's voice pulled her out of it. She was