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.

Katia

I stood on the cold pavement, the wind creeping under the thin silk of my robe as if it were laughing at me. The gate of my parents' mansion, the same house I grew up in, the same house that now stood silently behind me like it had already disowned me-remained closed, its heavy black bars glinting in the morning light. I stared at them for a long moment, not because I wanted to go back inside, but because I needed to remind myself that I was really out. This wasn't a scene or a scare tactic. I had been thrown out of my home like a broken toy, barefoot, pregnant, and wearing nothing but the robe I slept in.

But the mistake they made was thinking I had nowhere to go.

I slipped my hand into the hidden pocket on the inside of the robe, feeling the familiar chill of the encrypted phone I kept for racing, business, and everything I didn't want my mother involved in. My fingers moved on their own, pressing the icon I knew by heart. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Miss Kingston," Sam's voice came through, sharp as ever.

I didn't even know how to start. "Sam, I need you to pick me up. Now."

There was no pause. "Where are you?"

"Outside the mansion. Just me, my robe, and whatever dignity I've got left."

Sam didn't ask why. She didn't question what had happened or why I was calling her sounding like I'd been hit by a freight train. That's why she was still my assistant, my fixer, my only consistent human contact outside of racing. She got things done; no commentary needed.

"Fifteen minutes," she said, then hung up.

I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, waiting for the world to spin a little slower. My stomach was cramping slightly, and the soreness between my legs reminded me again of everything that had happened, or not happened, because honestly, I still couldn't remember half of it. I tried to take deep breaths, but they felt shallow, stuck in my throat. The front gate stayed closed behind me. Not even a curtain twitched in the windows. They didn't just want me out; they wanted me gone.

Fourteen minutes later, the matte black Rolls Royce pulled into the circle driveway like it owned the road. Sam stepped out from the driver's side in all black, her cropped hair slicked back, sunglasses hiding her eyes, and a cool, neutral expression on her face. She had always looked like she belonged more to a high-stakes intelligence agency than to my personal affairs, and right now, I was glad for it.

She popped the door open without saying a word, and I climbed in, pulling the robe tighter around me as the smell of leather and quiet power wrapped around me like a better version of home.

As she pulled out onto the street, she finally glanced over at me. "So..."

"I got kicked out," I said, voice flat. "Pregnancy doesn't fit the family aesthetic."

"I figured," Sam replied calmly. "You still have the ring?"

I nodded, holding up my left hand briefly before dropping it back into my lap.

"I couldn't find you an apartment on such short notice," she said, not missing a beat. "But I booked you a suite at the Vanté Hotel. Top floor, private entrance, 24/7 concierge, no press access. It'll keep you under the radar for now."

"Good," I said, pressing my forehead to the cool window. "How long can I stay there?"

"As long as you want. You paid for six months in advance."

I turned my head slowly. "I did?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I figured we'd get here eventually."

I almost laughed. "You really don't miss, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

We drove in silence for a while, the city moving around us as if I weren't sitting in the back of a luxury vehicle with my whole life flipped upside down. The farther we got from the house, the easier it was to breathe. My hands stopped shaking. My chest stopped burning. But the weight in my stomach, the not-so-subtle reminder of the baby inside me, stayed.

Sam parked the car in the private garage under the Vanté, scanned her ID, and led me up a secure elevator to the penthouse suite. The second the doors opened, I felt my lungs expand. Hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city, a kitchen bigger than the one at the mansion, and a king-sized bed I could finally collapse into without hearing my mother screaming in the hallway. For a second, I just stood there and let it all sink in.

"I'll have your clothes and personal items brought in by morning," Sam said, tapping her phone. "Do you want the full team back in place?"

I looked at her. "Yeah. All of them. I'm racing."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm racing, Sam."

She crossed her arms. "You're pregnant."

"Still racing."

"Do you even hear yourself right now?"

"Do you hear me?" I said, more sharply than intended. "This is how I survive. This is how I work through shit. I can't just sit around waiting for life to fall back together. It doesn't work that way. I need to move."

"You could... get hurt, Kat. You have millions in your account; you can survive more than 5 years and still pay the team. Racing, no, you hurt yourself or the baby."

"I could get hurt walking down the street. I could get hurt sitting on my ass doing nothing while the rest of the world moves on without me. I'm not fragile. I'm not helpless. I'm just-" I cut myself off and sat on the edge of the bed. "I need to do something."

Sam stared at me for a long moment, then walked over and sat in the chair across from me. "Okay. You're the boss. You want races; I'll get them. I can line up three back-to-back by next week. But you need to tell me what the plan is."

"The plan is this," I said, exhaling. "I race. I race every damn day if I have to. Three months, non-stop. You have three months to make sure everything is stable-housing, new identity files, account protection, media suppression, and business management. I don't want the Windsors tracking me, and I sure as hell don't want my parents getting any closer."

"Understood. And the pregnancy?"

I looked down. "I keep it quiet. Until I can't. If I start to show, I'll wear baggy gear. The helmet stays on. I'll deal with the rest when I get there."

"And what if you get sick during a race?"

"I won't."

"And if you do?"

"Then I pull off the track, and we figure it out."

Sam nodded. "You're really not going to tell me who the father is?"

I looked out the window, the city lights flickering like stars I couldn't reach. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

She didn't flinch or pry. She just tapped her phone and stood. "All right. The first race is in two days. Nevada circuit. Closed entry, six-figure prize. I'll email you the rest."

I stood and walked toward the window, arms crossed over my chest. "Thanks, Sam."

She paused at the door. "I don't care how this looks, Katia. You're not alone in this."

The door shut behind her, and the silence that followed felt... different. Not empty. Just quiet. Just mine.

I was still wearing the ring. I was still carrying someone's baby. But for the first time in days, I wasn't scared; I was free.

Julian

The skyline of Manhattan stretched in front of me, bathed in soft light as the sun filtered through thick gray clouds, painting the city in shades of steel and silver. The windows of my high-rise office offered a sweeping view of it all, an empire of glass and concrete, money and power, but none of it felt satisfying anymore. Not the deals. Not the penthouses. Not the silence that lingered long after everyone left for the day. Six years, and I still hadn't found her. Six fucking years chasing a ghost.

I sat behind my desk, the corner office a cathedral of success, every inch tailored to me-sleek, minimal, spotless. My assistant had left my schedule printed neatly beside my coffee, which had long since gone cold. The ticking of the designer wall clock was the only sound until I heard the door open without a knock.

"Still brooding?" Zane strolled in like he owned the place. He didn't, but he was one of the few people who could walk into my space uninvited and live to tell the story.

I looked up at him, studied the smirk on his face, and knew before he even said a word that he had something to say I wouldn't like.

"By the way you look," I said dryly, "I'm guessing you've got the results."

Zane leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, always relaxed, always amused. "Six years, man. You've been searching for six damn years."

"And?"

"And maybe it's time to stop. Let her go, Julian. You're getting married. The Kensington girl."

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a second. My temples throbbed. The Kensington girl, Jesus fucking Christ.

"I don't even know what's going on with that family," I muttered. "At first, I was betrothed to Katia. Then they switched it to Delia. Like I'm a fucking product on clearance."

Zane chuckled. "Well, you kind of are. You're the Windsor heir. People expect you to marry like it's chess."

I gave him a look. "I don't even know what Delia looks like."

"You don't have to," he said with a shrug. "It's not a love match. You're marrying her for your grandmother. Duty. Legacy. All that Windsor shit."

"If not for Grandma..." I trailed off.

"If not for Grandma, you'd still be playing Phantom King in Vegas and chasing a girl whose name you don't know."

I said nothing.

Zane pushed off the wall and pulled out his phone. "Well, since you're marrying Delia Kensington, you might as well know what she looks like."

I raised an eyebrow as he tapped on his screen and handed me the phone. Instagram. Of course. A carefully curated feed of designer clothes, overpriced cocktails, vacations in Bali and Saint-Tropez, and the kind of artificial smiles you see on department store mannequins. Delia was pretty, no doubt. Blonde, bright-eyed, and painfully polished. But nothing about her felt real.

"She's not my type," I muttered.

Zane smirked. "Keep scrolling."

I did. And then I stopped.

A photo, captioned "Happy Birthday, sis, -stared up at me. Two women, side by side, but only one of them made my heart stop. She wasn't smiling in the usual way. It wasn't for the camera. She wasn't performing. She wasn't posing. There was something distant in her expression, like her mind was somewhere else. Delia was all teeth and fake affection. But her sister Katia was...real and beautiful. That name was tagged.

"She's more my type," I said quietly.

Zane nodded. "Katia. The one you were originally promised to."

"Random face on the internet, yes," I muttered, eyes scanning the screen.

Zane looked over. "Just another Kensington girl?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't know. I'm just saying the face looks familiar, that's all. But my brain doesn't remember a damn thing."

The bitterness in my voice was sharp, even to my own ears. The truth stung more every time I said it.

"It pains me that I've been chasing a ghost for the past few years. And now I have to marry some girl named Delia." I say and then go on. "The pilot told me we were making out in the chopper," I added, voice low. "Said there were stains, blood on the seat. The staff at the hotel had to burn the sheets. I woke up alone the next morning. With a ring, no name, and no trace of her."

Zane winced and leaned back in his chair. "Still can't believe you went through with it."

"I was drugged," I snapped, rubbing my temple. "Your idea of a bachelor send-off nearly got me married to a stripper."

Zane laughed. "That's slander. She wasn't a stripper."

"Right. And I wasn't blackout drunk, bleeding, and legally married to a woman I couldn't describe to a police sketch artist. Your fault, you spiked our drinks."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, the usual grin on his face fading slightly. "Tell Grandma yet?"

I shot him a cold look.

"Okay, okay," he muttered. "I'm just saying... she's been patient. For a Windsor."

I leaned forward and set the phone down on the desk with deliberate control. "You know what pisses me off the most?"

Zane raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"She's not looking for me."

The silence that followed was heavier than I liked. Zane didn't speak. Maybe for once, he didn't know what to say.

"I didn't imagine this," I went on, my voice quieter now, sharper. "The papers were real. The license. The ring. The night. It all happened. She married me. My pilot saw us. My lawyers confirmed the registration. So why the hell has she vanished?"

Zane gave a light shrug. "Maybe she doesn't remember either."

I scoffed. "She remembers. Trust me. You don't forget getting married in Vegas. Especially not to someone like me."

He stayed quiet.

"She's choosing not to come forward," I said.

"She probably thought you were just some drunk idiot with a private jet and a hard-on," Zane said. "Let's be real, Julian. That night? That wasn't exactly your finest moment."

"No," I muttered. "It wasn't."

He stood and stretched like he had all the time in the world. "Anyway. You should go home. Your grandmother's been asking more questions lately."

I stood slowly. "I'll tell her I lost the ring."

Zane froze at the door. "You're serious?"

My eyes met his. "Dead serious."

He stared at me for a beat, then nodded and left, mumbling under his breath about secrets and stubborn men.

I walked to the window and looked out over Manhattan. The streets were small from up here, ants moving through glass veins. I didn't see any of it.

I saw the blackout. The blood. The blurred memory of a voice I couldn't place. Hands on my skin. A woman's body in the dark. My ring on her finger.

But never her face. Not even once. She was gone. And the worst part was, I had no way of finding her.

She could walk past me on the street, and I wouldn't even know. She could be anyone.

I closed my eyes and tried, one last time, to conjure the memory. A detail. A sound. A name. But there was nothing. Just the flash of heat. Her breath in my ear. Her body under mine. Her voice-

"Then fuck me."

I opened my eyes, my jaw clenched tight. She was gone. But not forgotten.

I didn't care who she was. Or why she left. I didn't care what name she went by now, or if she even wore the ring anymore.

What I cared about was one simple, irrefutable fact:

She was mine.

And one day, sooner or later, I'd find her. Even if I had to tear this city apart.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Time to see Grandma.