Ohio Bound: With His Baby

For three years, I was Annabel Jenkins, the glamorous "personal assistant" to New York's powerful Wall Street Prince, Ethan Lester, living a life most only dreamed of.

Then, at a Hamptons charity gala, I saw her: Sabrina Fuller, flashing a massive diamond and bragging about being "the future Mrs. Lester."

My world shattered. I unleashed years of pent-up fury, scratching Sabrina' s face and shoving Ethan into the pool, finally fleeing a life I believed was based on a cruel lie.

Back home in Ohio, branded a "psychopath" online by Sabrina' s viral victim video, my reputation was destroyed, my food blog ruined, and even my team betrayed me.

I thought I' d lost everything, but then came the ultimate blow: a positive pregnancy test. And right after that, a $10 million wire transfer from Ethan, silencing me, confirming his cruel dismissal.

So when a black Escalade pulled up to my humble family home, and Ethan Lester himself walked in, I was ready to defend my unborn child from the man who had discarded us.

The first thing I did after shoving Ethan Lester into the pool was run.

I didn' t look back. I just ran, the sounds of shouting and a huge splash echoing behind me at the Hamptons charity gala.

My designer dress was already torn from my fight with Sabrina Fuller, her stupid, smug face now probably scratched to hell.

"It's over!" I had screamed at Ethan, my voice raw with tears and fury. "We are done!"

Now, panic was a cold sweat on my back. I had just assaulted one of the most powerful men in New York City and his soon-to-be fiancée in front of a hundred of their rich friends.

I couldn't use my credit cards. Ethan would find me in a second. My phone was a tracking device. I turned it off and shoved it deep into my purse.

Near the exit, a girl was smoking, looking bored. She eyed my handbag. It was a limited-edition Chanel that Ethan had bought me.

"I'll give you five hundred cash for the bag," she said, blowing smoke.

"Done."

I dumped my phone and cards on the manicured lawn, took her crumpled bills, and walked away from the glittering party without a second glance. I found the nearest main road and flagged down a car, lying about a fight with my boyfriend and needing a ride to the bus station.

An hour later, I was on a Greyhound bus heading west to Ohio, the five hundred dollars feeling thin in my pocket. The adrenaline started to fade, replaced by a deep, shaking fear.

What had I done? I was Annabel Jenkins, the "personal assistant" to the Wall Street Prince, Ethan Lester. That was the public story. The private one was that I was his girlfriend, his kept woman, for three years. For $25,000 a month, I lived in his world.

And I had just spectacularly blown it all up.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the bus window, the city lights blurring into streaks. My life in New York was over. My food blog, my one piece of independence, was probably next.

I closed my eyes, and the memory of how it all started came rushing back.

Three years ago, I was just a barista in a high-end SoHo café, drowning in debt from my liberal arts degree. I was trying to get my food blog off the ground, but it was going nowhere.

He walked in one afternoon, all custom-tailored suit and quiet authority. Ethan Lester. I' d seen his face in the tabloids. He ordered a black coffee, his voice low and cold.

My hands were shaking from exhaustion. I was working a double shift. As I turned to hand him the cup, I stumbled, and the entire scalding hot latte went down the front of his perfect, expensive suit.

"I'm so sorry! Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I stammered, grabbing napkins.

My manager rushed over, his face pale. "Mr. Lester! I am so sorry! She's fired. You're fired!" he yelled at me.

I expected Ethan to be furious. Instead, he just looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. I stopped apologizing and just stood there, waiting for the yelling.

"Don't fire her," Ethan said, his voice calm. He never even looked at my manager. He just kept his eyes on me. "It was an accident."

He handed me a business card. "Send the cleaning bill to my office."

Then he turned and walked out, leaving a stunned café in his wake.

The next day, his real personal assistant called me. Mr. Lester wanted to see me. I thought he'd changed his mind, that he was going to sue me or get me blacklisted from every coffee shop in Manhattan.

I went to his office, a glass tower that scraped the sky. He was sitting behind a huge desk, looking just as intimidating as he had in the café.

"I'm not going to sue you," he said, without any preamble.

"Okay," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"I'm offering you a job."

I blinked. "A job? Doing what?"

He pushed a contract across the desk. "Personal assistant. You'll be available to me when I need you. Dinners, events, travel. The details are in there."

I opened the folder. The salary was at the top: $25,000. A month.

My jaw dropped. "This is... this is a lot of money."

"I'm a busy man," he said, his expression unchanging. "I require a certain... arrangement. It's a three-year contract."

I knew what he was really asking. It wasn't about scheduling his meetings. It was about scheduling me. I was broke, desperate, and tired of being a failure. He was offering me a golden escape hatch.

I looked at him, the powerful, cold man offering me a fortune.

"I accept," I said.

And just like that, my life as Annabel Jenkins, barista, ended. My life as Ethan Lester's girl began.

The bus ride was a 12-hour blur of cheap coffee and regret. I finally stumbled off in my small Ohio hometown, the torn designer dress looking ridiculous under the morning sun. My parents' house was a modest, two-story home with a porch swing, a world away from Ethan's penthouse.

My mom opened the door and gasped, her eyes going from my dirty, expensive dress to the scratch marks on my arm.

"Annabel! What happened to you?"

"I got into a fight," I mumbled, pushing past her. "I broke up with Ethan."

My dad looked up from his newspaper, his face grim. "A fight? What kind of trouble are you in, Annie?"

Before I could answer, my mom's laptop, open on the kitchen table, caught my eye. It was open to my food blog, "Annabel's Eats." The comment section was a war zone.

Gold-digger got what she deserved.

Heard she attacked Sabrina Fuller! Psycho!

Hope Ethan Lester sues her for every penny.

My stomach twisted. I scrolled down and saw it: a post from Sabrina. It was a video of her, face tear-streaked, a delicate bandage on her cheek.

"I don't know why she attacked me," Sabrina whimpered to her millions of followers. "She's always been so jealous of my success. She even tried to steal my content ideas. I just want everyone to know the truth about the kind of violent, unstable person Annabel Jenkins really is."

My career was over. My reputation, destroyed. All because of a lie.

The memory of the gala came back, sharp and painful. I had seen Sabrina by the bar, flashing a massive diamond ring on her left hand. It was bigger than any ring I'd ever seen.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" she'd purred, making sure I saw it. "Ethan has such good taste. I can't wait to be the future Mrs. Lester."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The future Mrs. Lester.

So this was it. After three years, he was finally getting married, and I was being replaced. All the little insecurities, the fear of being just a temporary arrangement, solidified into a hard, ugly certainty.

That's when I snapped.

I didn't even think. I lunged, my nails finding her cheek. She shrieked, tearing my dress. Then Ethan was there, pulling me off her, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Annabel, stop it! What the hell are you doing?" he'd yelled, holding me back while he checked on a crying Sabrina.

Seeing him protect her was the final straw. I shoved him, hard. He stumbled backward, lost his balance, and fell into the ridiculously ornate swimming pool behind him.

That's when I ran.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A number I didn't recognize. I answered, my voice flat.

"Annabel? It's Chloe," a rival food blogger said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I just heard what happened. So awful. By the way, I just wanted to let you know, I've hired your photographer, Mark. And your assistant, Jenny. They said you probably wouldn't be needing them anymore."

The phone felt heavy in my hand. Betrayed. Not just by Ethan, but by my own team. The people I thought were my friends.

A different memory surfaced, pushing through the anger. It was from when I first started the blog, struggling to film a recipe video in my tiny apartment kitchen. I was failing, crying in frustration over the bad lighting and shaky camera work.

Ethan had found me like that. He didn't say much. He just sat down, took my laptop, and started researching. All night, he stayed up, looking at photography tutorials and reading articles about social media analytics.

The next day, he had a list for me. The best camera angles. The right lighting equipment to buy. The optimal times to post on Instagram.

When I asked him why, he just shrugged, not looking at me. "I don't want to see you cry."

He was my first and most important supporter. And I had just thrown it all away.