"I don't love you. I never did."

The words echoed in my skull, hollow and sharp.

My hand moved instinctively to my belly, six months swollen with the child—his child, OUR child—and suddenly the weight of it felt unbearable.

"Then what is this?" My voice cracked despite my efforts to stay calm. I gestured to my stomach, the physical evidence of what I'd believed was our future. "What is this baby, Evan?"

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and his lips curled into something cold and cruel. "A mistake."

Two words. Just two simple words, and my entire world collapsed.

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. My knees buckled, and I felt myself falling back onto the sofa.

Sarah's hands caught me, steadying me, her warm palms pressing against my shoulders.

"Mister!" Sarah's voice cut through the fog, sharp with indignation. "How dare you speak to your wife like this? She's six months pregnant, for God's sake!"

But I couldn't hear the rest. Her words faded into a distant buzz as my vision blurred, the room spinning around me.

A mistake.

Our baby—*my* baby—was a mistake.

The divorce papers slipped from my fingers, scattering across the carpet like fallen leaves.

Sarah was still talking, her voice rising with anger I couldn't process. Evan said something in return, his tone flat and dismissive. But I was no longer in that room. I was drowning, sinking into a sea of memories I'd cherished, now tainted and rotting.

It must sound funny, but truth is: I still remembered the first time I saw him. Clearly.

The memory rose unbidden, sharp and vivid despite my current state of shock. That was how much I loved him.

The Whitmore Foundation's annual scholarship gala, five years ago.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and champagne flutes, filled with donors congratulating themselves on their generosity.

I was twenty-one, fresh out of an argument with a childhood friend-foe of mine, Chris Vanderwall about who would give the better speech at our college debate competition.

I was angry, annoyed, impatient, and was in such a down mood that I needed air.

And then I saw *him*.

I suddenly felt I was able to breath again.

Evan Miller. He stood near the back of the room, slightly apart from the other scholarship recipients. His suit didn't fit quite right—the sleeves a touch too long, the shoulders not quite squared—but he wore it with a quiet dignity that made my heart stutter. When our eyes met across the crowd, something inside me shifted, clicked into place like a key turning in a lock.

I'd approached him that night with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no. "I'm Lia Whitmore," I'd said, extending my hand.

He'd taken it briefly, his grip firm but distant. "Evan Miller. Thank you—your family's scholarship, it's... it saved me."

I'd fallen in love right then, and my pursuit had begun that very night.

For five years, I pursued him with the relentless determination that came from a lifetime of getting what I wanted.

I confessed my feelings ninety-nine times—*ninety-nine*—across college campuses and coffee shops, at holiday parties and random Tuesday afternoons. I showed up at his dorm with homemade meals when I knew he was studying late. I bought him textbooks he couldn't afford, disguised as "extra copies" I didn't need. I learned his coffee order, his favorite authors, the way he absently rubbed his left temple when he was stressed.

And every time, he said no.

"I don't feel that way about you, Lia."

"We're from different worlds."

"I'm not ready for a relationship."

"You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

The excuses changed, but the answer never did.

There were moments when I wanted to give up, when the weight of rejection made it hard to breathe. I'd lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me. Why wasn't I enough?

But then I'd see him again—in the library, at a campus event, walking across the quad—and hope would surge back, fierce and irrational. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe if I just tried harder, loved him more, proved my devotion beyond any doubt, he would finally see me.

I'd been so wrong.

The memory of those vivid warm college days faded, and memory from New Year's Eve last year crashed over me with devastating clarity. That was when I thought I’d made a difference.

I'd gone to his tiny apartment with my usual armload of gifts—champagne, his favorite takeout, a leather-bound first edition of his favorite novel. It was confession number one hundred, and I'd been determined to make it count.

But when he opened the door, something was different. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. He looked at me like I was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

"Prove it," he'd whispered, tears streaming down his face. "Prove you love me."

I hadn't questioned it, hadn't wondered what had changed. I'd simply pulled him into my arms, and we'd spent the night tangled together in his narrow bed, his hands mapping my body like he was trying to memorize every curve, his mouth hot and desperate against mine.

The next morning, I'd lain beside him, watching the winter sunlight play across his sleeping face, and finally worked up the courage.

"So... Evan, what are we now?"

He'd stared at the ceiling for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then he'd turned to me with those dark eyes I'd loved for so long.

"Lia. Will you marry me?"

"Will you marry me?"

When I heard the proposal, I'd thought it was a miracle.

I'd thought my persistence had finally broken through his walls. I'd cried tears of joy and said yes, yes, *yes*, a thousand times yes.

Five years of rejection, five years of wondering what was wrong with me, and suddenly—*finally*—it was over.

He wanted me. He chose me.

The next three months blurred together in a whirlwind of wedding preparations. I threw myself into planning with the same relentless energy I'd poured into pursuing Evan.

Engagement party at the Whitmore estate. Meeting his handful of friends, introducing him to mine. Cake tastings, flower selections, venue bookings.

My friends had surrounded me with congratulations, their faces glowing with genuine happiness for what they called my 'persistence paying off.'

'You never gave up,' my college roommate had gushed, squeezing my hands as she admired my engagement ring. 'Five years, Lia. Five years of believing in love when everyone else would have walked away. You're living proof that true love conquers all.'

I'd basked in their praise, in the validation that my years of devotion hadn't been wasted.

Even my parents, initially skeptical about Evan's background, had warmed to him once they saw how happy he made me—or how happy I thought he made me.

Though there were also a few notes of concern, like the one my big sister Margaret gave me—I could still recall how she raised an eyebrow at the speed but said nothing, only insisting—firmly—that I have a prenuptial agreement drawn up.

And, of course, Chris Vanderwall.

Chris and I had been rivals since childhood—our parents constantly comparing us, pushing us to outdo each other. Academic competitions, social events, even stupid things like who got better grades in piano lessons. We'd fought our way through elementary school, high school, college. The fact that he'd become a successful lawyer while I'd chosen to work in the family's charitable foundation had only given our parents more ammunition for comparison.

So when he'd opposed me, I wasn’t even surprised.

He’d shown up at my apartment three days after I'd posted the engagement announcement, his lawyer's briefcase in hand and his expression grim.

"Don't marry him," he'd said without preamble.

I'd stared at him, already feeling my temper rise.

"Excuse me?"

"Five years, Lia." His voice was sharp, clinical. "Five years he said no to you. And suddenly, overnight, he proposes? Don't you think that's strange?"

"People change," I'd snapped. "Maybe he finally realized what he was missing."

"Or maybe something else changed." Chris had pulled out a folder, setting it on my coffee table. "I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm saying it because something doesn't add up."

I'd refused to look at whatever he'd brought. "You just can't stand seeing me happy, can you? God forbid Lia Whitmore gets her fairy tale ending while perfect Chris Vanderwall is still single."

His jaw had tightened. "This isn't about me."

"It's always about you," I'd said bitterly. "Get out."

He'd left the folder on my table anyway. I'd thrown it away without opening it.

But his words had nagged at me enough that when Margaret insisted on the prenup and brought it up to me for three whole times, I'd agreed readily.

Chris was a petty, competitive bastard who'd probably just been trying to ruin my happiness, but he *was* a lawyer. And lawyers thought about protection.

Besides, what did it matter? Evan and I would be together forever. Love didn't need protection, the prenup was just paper.

Then, after three months of fierce joy and bustling chaotic preparations, finally came our wedding.

The wedding itself was beautiful—spring flowers, two hundred guests, my dress a cascade of ivory silk. It was everything I dreamt of. Evan had looked handsome in his tuxedo, and when he said "I do,"

I'd thought I might burst from happiness.

Now thinking back, there were signs I might have ignored or been blinded to, for example, during our honeymoon, some moments—small, fleeting moments—I'd catch Evan staring at nothing, his expression distant and hollow. When I'd ask what he was thinking, he'd smile and say "nothing" or "just tired.,"

But I'd let it go. He was reserved by nature. I'd known that from the beginning—or that was how I convinced myself.

I'd told myself he just needed time to adjust. Marriage was a big step. He'd spent five years pushing me away; of course it would take him a while to fully let me in.

When we returned home and I found out I was pregnant two months later, I'd been overjoyed.

Evan had gone quiet when I showed him the test, but then he'd nodded and said, "That's good," and I'd chosen to believe him.

I'd chosen to believe so many things.

Now, sitting in my living room with divorce papers scattered at my feet, Chris’ warning and Margaret’s firmness echoed in my skull like curses.

*Don't you think that's strange?*

*At least you need a prenup to make sure things are safe for you.*

Sarah's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Mr. Miller, your wife is carrying your child. You can't just—"

"I'm not responsible for her suffocating infatuation," Evan interrupted, his tone cold and dismissive. "I never asked for any of this."

Something inside me snapped.

"Suffocating?" The word ripped out of me, raw and jagged. I pushed myself off the sofa, my hands shaking. "I loved you! I gave you *everything*—five years of my life, my heart, my—"

"And I never wanted it," he said flatly.

Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.

No. Not in front of him.

"Then why?" My voice cracked, desperation bleeding through despite my efforts to stay composed. "If you didn't want me, if you never loved me, then why did you *propose*?"

For the first time since he'd walked through that door, Evan hesitated. His jaw worked, and something flickered across his face—guilt? No. Regret, maybe.

But not for me.

"Because," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "I needed someone. And you were there."

The room tilted again. My hand found the back of the sofa, gripping it to keep myself upright.

"What does that mean?" I whispered.

Evan's eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the truth before he even spoke it.

"It means you were convenient."