~Katia~

"Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get laid. I could still feel the ache between my legs. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room.

"Now, I can have you however I want because you are now my wife, princess." The room was dark, and I was feeling all sorts of things; I doubt I even remember my name at this point. He sent me launching onto a bed. His finger ran along my lips. His lips traced along my neck. It tickles, and it feels so good. My mind zigzags in pleasure and confusion.

"I love your body, wifey." He pulls up my dress, and now I am exposed. "I couldn't wait to get you here so I could taste you from the chopper. I want to make it memorable for you." His words shocked me like a live wire.

*

Morning slammed into me with cruel sunlight and a splitting headache. I woke up in a room I didn't recognize.

The room screamed money, expensive cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I was naked under the sheets, tangled in them like I'd been tossed there, and beside me, a man lay asleep. A stranger, panic hit me like a punch to the chest.

I couldn't even look at him. I didn't want to. I didn't want to know what kind of face went with the body that had touched mine, claimed mine. I sat up too fast, and pain shot between my legs like a warning. I gasped and clutched the sheets tighter.

Everything down there was sore and swollen. The ache in my thighs was sharp, deep, and humiliating.

I scanned the floor, found my dress-crumpled and reeking of bar smoke and sweat-and yanked it on, wincing with every movement. My heels were on their sides by the door. I hobbled toward them like I was learning to walk again, forcing myself to stand tall even when I wanted to curl into myself and disappear.

What the hell happened last night?

I remembered the race. The victory. The roar of the crowd. I remembered heading to the bar to celebrate. I ordered one drink, then another, then... then two guys approached me.

Their faces were blurry. Everything after that? Blank, like someone hit the erase button on my memory. There was laughter, I think. Maybe a game of pool. A joke. Something about tequila. And then-nothing.

Just soreness. Just this stranger. Just a room I didn't know.

I found my purse by the couch, slung it over my shoulder, and didn't look back. I didn't want to wake him. I didn't want him to speak. I didn't want him to remember me, either.

I made my way to the parking garage, ignoring the way my legs trembled with every step, found my car, and drove back to my hotel like a ghost at the wheel.

When I finally made it to my suite, I didn't even stop to breathe. I stripped the dress off again, went straight into the bathroom, and turned on the shower like I could rinse off the confusion clinging to me.

The water hit my skin, and I almost jumped, like someone else's body had touched hardly every inch of mine, and I didn't even get the decency of a name.

My chest was tight, my eyes burned, and when I splashed water on my face, something cold clicked against my cheek. I froze and looked down at my left hand, and my stomach dropped into my feet.

I was wearing a ring.

Not costume jewelry. Not something cheap from a souvenir shop. This thing sparkled. It shone. It looked like commitment, permanence, and possibly a felony.

"What the fuck?" I whispered.

I yanked the shower curtain open and stepped out, dripping, breath shallow. My fingers trembled as I turned the ring around, trying to figure out if it was real. It looked expensive. Too expensive. But I didn't remember anything. Not a proposal. Not a chapel. Not even a kiss.

I threw clothes on, barely drying off, and rushed out of my room to find the guy. Any guy. But I remembered I don't remember anything; there was no trail to follow, no clue, not even a room number. I hadn't even checked what floor I was on this morning.

Even if I passed him in the lobby... I wouldn't recognize his face.

"My god," I whispered again, gripping my temple.

I remembered nothing.

Katia

I woke up to the sour taste of bile creeping up my throat, and my legs threw me out of bed before my brain could even catch up. The morning light seared into my eyes like punishment, and I stumbled across the cold floor, my feet slapping against the wood, straight into the bathroom. My knees hit the tile, and my head dipped into the toilet as I heaved, every muscle in my stomach wrenching like it was trying to pull itself inside out.

It was the third morning in a row. No, the fifth. Hell, I'd stopped counting.

I could hear my mother's footsteps behind me, the sharp, impatient kind that clicked like a metronome of judgment. I knew she would follow me. My mom never misses a chance to remind me that I'm a fuck-up. She stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms folded, her expression already set to that self-righteous scowl she reserved just for me.

"It's been two weeks since you came back from Las Vegas," she muttered, her voice hard, like she'd been rehearsing that line for maximum guilt.

I didn't respond; my face was still half inside the toilet, and I wasn't in the mood to explain how morning sickness works to the woman who had raised me with more slaps than hugs.

"David!" she yelled suddenly, like her voice alone wasn't enough of a siren.

From somewhere in the house, I heard the crash of the remote hitting the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. Dad appeared a few seconds later, still wearing his worn-out robe, his hair a mess, and his face confused like someone had just told him his truck was pregnant.

"What is it, woman?" he grunted.

"Your daughter is pregnant," my mother said with the kind of dramatic flair that should've come with a stage spotlight. "I've been watching her for some time now, and today is the day I've confirmed it. Katia is pregnant."

I wished the toilet would just suck me down. Swirl me into the pipes, and flush me away from all of this.

"Martha, what do you mean? Our daughter is only twenty! How can she be pregnant?"

Gee, Dad. Should I draw you a diagram? I thought it, but I didn't have the strength to say it. My hands were shaking, my forehead pressed to the cool toilet seat, and my stomach felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Mom was already shoving the bathroom door open wider. "Katia, get out here!" she snapped.

I wiped my mouth with shaking fingers and pulled myself up, grabbing the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like a ghost with a hangover. I had pale skin, sunken eyes, and lips that were cracked and raw.

I stumbled out of the bathroom just in time to turn around and vomit again.

My dad's face turned to panic. "Katia, why? Baby, tell me you ate something bad. Maybe it's food poisoning, an allergy, or something like that, right?"

Hope bloomed in his voice like he actually believed it. Poor man, my dad is the only person who has shown me love, not the woman who pushed me out to this world with her pussy and acted like it didn't matter. Mom only cared about my younger sister. To her, everything I have should be given to my sister Delia.

"Stop it, David," Mom snapped. "Katia is pregnant."

She reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out a small white box like it was a weapon. "I actually bought this yesterday. Just in case."

She shoved it into my hand. The box was light but felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

"Go inside and pee. I'll do it myself."

"Of course you will," I muttered under my breath. She didn't care what I thought. Never did. This was never about me, not really. It was about what I'd done to her life, her reputation, and her delusions of having a perfect daughter.

I walked back into the bathroom with the test in my hand, my fingers clutching it like it might explode. The plastic felt foreign and wrong. My heart thumped behind my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I peed on the stick.

My mother barged in before I could even stand up properly and snatched the test out of my hands like a jailer collecting contraband. She marched out of the bathroom, her mouth twisted into that grim line that meant she was going to pretend she was the victim in all of this.

She stood there in the hallway, tapping one foot on the tile like she was counting the seconds until the results confirmed how much she hated me.

Two minutes later, she screamed.

"I TOLD YOU!" she bellowed, holding the test like it was bloody evidence. "She's pregnant!"

My dad sat down slowly on the couch like his knees had given up. "Jesus Christ..."

"WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?" Mom yelled.

I didn't say a word. My throat was dry and cracked, and no sound wanted to come out. Besides, she wasn't asking. Not really. She was performing.

She stepped forward and slapped me so hard that my head jerked sideways, and for a second, the room spun.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU FUCKING SLUT!" she screamed.

The slap wasn't the worst part. The worst part was how easy it was for her. Like it was second nature.

I started crying, my hands up but not really protecting anything. She didn't care. She never did. Her love came with strings, with rules, with conditions I never managed to meet.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning me, like she was looking for more sins to accuse me of. That's when she saw it. The ring on my finger and her whole body went still.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice low now and dangerously calm.

She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. The ring wasn't small; it was unmistakably bold. The silver band was smooth and heavy, sculpted like something out of another era. Set into it was a large, deep red gem that was so rich in color it looked like it had been plucked from the heart of a fire. It didn't sparkle like cheap jewelry; it burned, slow and low, like it was alive with its own light. The design was intricate and elegant in a way that made you stop and stare, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered money without ever saying a word. You could feel the weight of it. The importance of it. Like it had a story.

The ring wasn't from any mall jewelry store, and it sure as hell didn't belong on the hand of a girl like me. I searched for the ring online, but nothing. Because your girl didn't just get pregnant in Vegas; well, she also got married.

My mom started laughing. Not a normal laugh. Not the kind people do when something's funny. It was manic, broken, and high-pitched, like something cracked inside her and spilled out in the shape of madness.

"WHO GAVE YOU THIS RING?" she shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My voice felt like it had been locked inside me.

I looked at her, and then I looked past her to the blank TV, the broken remote, the wilted houseplant in the corner, and the chipped mug my dad always used, and I knew this wasn't the end of the beginning.

This was the beginning of the end.

She shook the test in front of me like it was my death certificate. "You want to play grown-up?" she hissed. "Well, welcome to grown-up consequences. Who. Gave. You. That. Ring?"

I clenched my jaw. Her voice dropped lower, venom wrapped in velvet. "Are you ashamed of him, or is he just long gone?"

Dad finally spoke, voice thin. "Martha, stop."

She didn't even look at him. "Don't defend her. She has no idea what she's done."

"I know exactly what I've done," I said suddenly. My voice didn't sound like mine; it was harder, raw, and scraped down to the bone. "It was a mistake."

Her face twisted in disgust. "And now you're going to ruin your life. You've thrown it all away."

I looked at her for a long moment, and something cold settled in my chest. "You act like my life was ever mine to begin with."

That shut her up for a second. Just a second.

"You're not staying here," she said, final and sharp.

"Martha-" Dad started again.

"No," she snapped. "She made her choice. Let her figure it out."

Katia

“Get out!” my mom screamed, her voice tearing through the hallway like a bomb going off in a small room.

The sound hit the walls and bounced back so violently, like the house itself was flinching. Even the air felt startled, buzzing with the kind of tension that makes your skin crawl. My heart slammed against my ribs, not from surprise, but from inevitability. This was the moment I’d been bracing for since the pregnancy test turned positive, since the ring had caught her eye, since her fantasy version of my life collapsed like a cheap stage prop.

I didn’t even flinch because I knew it would come to this. I just knew it. The second she saw the ring, the second her fantasy of me being some corporate bride-to-be shattered, I could feel the sentence forming behind her teeth. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head, grinding down whatever affection she pretended to have left for me and replacing it with raw rage. And there it was. A weapon wrapped in spite and fury.

“Martha, stop it!” my dad barked, stepping toward her like he might physically block the words from coming out of her mouth. “She needs to tell us who got her pregnant. That’s what we need to focus on!”

That was cute. He thought logic was still on the table. He thought this was still a conversation and not a public execution.

“I don’t care!” she snapped. “She was supposed to marry Julian Windsor! And now, now she’s pregnant for some crazy man!”

She spat the word like it tasted poisonous. Her eyes dragged over my face, scanning for shame, for tears, for something she could grab onto and weaponize. Her mouth twisted like she’d already decided I disgusted her more than usual, which honestly felt like a competitive sport in this house.

“Do you even know who got you pregnant?” she hissed.

Did it matter?

I stayed quiet. My silence only made her louder and more unhinged. It always did. Silence terrified her. It meant she didn’t have control.

But let’s be real: she didn’t care about the truth. She didn’t care about my body or my decisions or even the baby growing inside me. She cared about Julian Windsor.

Julian fucking Windsor. The man I was apparently betrothed to, like I was livestock in some Victorian tragedy. A man I’d never met. Never spoken to. Never even seen in real life or on a screen or on a grainy news clip. He existed in theory and in contracts and in whispered business conversations behind closed doors.

Not that I didn’t try. Delia and I had searched him online once late at night, half curious, half bored, scrolling through search results like teenagers hunting for gossip, but we found nothing. No photos, no online interviews, no social media presence. Not even a blurry LinkedIn profile or a suspicious Wikipedia stub. Julian Windsor didn’t exist, not in the way normal people exist. All we knew was that he was ridiculously rich. Like old-money, owns-an-island, probably-has-a-butler-named-Cedric rich. The kind of rich that doesn’t need publicity because money itself is already power.

And for some reason, my parents thought tossing me at him like a bargaining chip would fix everything wrong with their company, their reputation, and their fragile egos.

My pregnancy ruined that plan. And no, I couldn’t tell them I didn’t know who the father was. Not because I was ashamed; shame was a luxury emotion in this house, but because I didn’t have an answer. Vegas was a blur of neon lights, alcohol-soaked memories, half-remembered laughter, a ring, a promise made in chaos, and a reality I hadn’t fully unpacked yet. I couldn’t hand them a name even if my life depended on it.

“Oh my God, Kat, you’re pregnant?” Delia’s voice sliced through the tension like an excited knife.

Great. Just what I needed. The audience had arrived.

She appeared at the top of the stairs, barefoot, wearing one of those silky little nightgowns she always saved for dramatic moments, like she was auditioning for some spoiled heiress role in her own fantasy movie. Her hair was twisted into that perfectly messy updo that probably took thirty minutes and three hair products to achieve. She leaned against the railing, eyes sparkling like she was about to witness something deliciously scandalous.

She looked down at me like I was a soap opera she’d been waiting to binge. “Does that mean…” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest theatrically, “I’ll be the one marrying Julian Windsor?” She said it like she just won a billion-dollar lottery.

I scoffed, dryly and bitterly. “Glad to see someone’s living the dream.”

Delia didn’t even pretend to be offended. Her smile widened like Christmas had come early.

I turned toward my mom, hoping maybe this was the moment she’d shut Delia down. That she’d say no, that she’d insist I was still the daughter promised, that she wouldn’t trade me in like defective merchandise.

But she didn’t. She looked at my dad. And she smiled. “David,” she said softly, with that tone that always meant a scheme was sharpening its claws.

My dad hesitated. His eyes met mine for a split second. Dark. Tired. Worn down by years of surrender. I saw the exact moment he folded, the exact moment he decided peace was more important than protecting me.

“They… insisted on our eldest daughter,” he said quietly, and the words sank into my chest like ice water.

I was the contract. The pawn. The deal. And now I was broken merchandise.

“Well,” my mom snapped, “she’s pregnant! David, you know we can’t give them a pregnant daughter.”

My father nodded. “Okay, we give them Dalia.”

She turned back to Delia, something wild lighting up her face. “Yes,” she said, her voice climbing with excitement. “YES.” She actually leapt in place, clapping her hands once like a child who’d just been told they were going to Disneyland.

“I always said you were the beautiful one,” she gushed, grabbing Delia’s face and kissing her forehead like she’d just been crowned queen. “You’re going to marry old money, baby.”

Delia beamed, soaking it in like sunlight.

Then my mom turned to me.

The warmth evaporated instantly.

“David, the city is going to laugh at us if she stays,” she said sharply. “Katia needs to leave this house.”

My dad’s mouth opened but then closed. His jaw clenched like he was chewing a broken glass. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything. And just like that, it was happening.

She stepped toward me with that clipped, decisive pace she always used when she’d already made up her mind. Every step felt like a countdown.

“Get out!” she barked. “You do not take anything that your father and I bought for you. You are a woman now. Go to whoever got you pregnant.”

Her voice cracked at the end, not from pain, but from pure disgust. Like I was something spoiled sitting on her counter that needed to be thrown away before it contaminated the rest of the house.

I looked at my dad again, and he looked aside. He turned his head away from me like I wasn’t there anymore.

That hurt worse than the slap. Worse than the screaming. Worse than being treated like disposable trash.

He was supposed to love me. He was supposed to be the one who didn’t fold.

I waited a beat. Just one fragile, stupid second hoping he’d change his mind, but he didn’t.

So I turned. I didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. That would’ve given them too much satisfaction, too much power over what was left of my dignity.

I walked down the hallway like a ghost, the bathrobe around me suddenly feeling thinner than it had a moment ago. The air felt colder with every step, like the house itself was already rejecting me. I passed the family photos, forced smiles, staged vacations, and framed lies pretending to be memories. A younger version of me stared back from one picture, eyes hopeful and unaware of how conditional love could be.

My chest felt hollow.

I reached the door.

Opened it.

The outside air hit me like a slap. It was colder than I expected. The kind of cold that cuts through fabric and pride in one blow.

I stepped outside in nothing but my robe, with no shoes. The only thing I had was my phone. And it was because they didn’t see it on me; if they did, they could have taken it from me. And the door closed behind me.