Pregnant by My Enemy's Fiancé

I should've known. Honestly, I should've known.

The universe always has this way of slapping me in the face right when I'm feeling too damn happy. Like today, when I was practically skipping through JFK with a carry-on stuffed full of overpriced Parisian lingerie and dreams of straddling my boyfriend the second I walked through the door.

I haven't seen Monty in a week, and I spent half that time pretending the Eiffel Tower was only half as thrilling as being in his arms. Pathetic, I know. But love makes you delusional. It makes you blind. And apparently, it also makes you stupid.

Staring at myself in the elevator mirror as it climbs to our penthouse floor-my penthouse floor, technically. My blonde curls tousled just enough to look effortless (thanks to dry shampoo and airport humidity), red lipstick still intact despite the 8-hour flight, and under my basic brown coat? A sheer, baby pink lingerie set that screamed "rip this off with your teeth."

I look good. Dangerous. Like the heroine in a dark romance movie.

Except this wasn't a damn romance, it's my pathetic life.

Monty hasn't picked up any of my three calls since I landed. But I'm not worried-he probably left his phone charging, the forgetful idiot. Or maybe my assistant Callie told him I was coming home early? She's sweet but she has a mouth like a leaky faucet and zero concept of a surprise. I make a mental note to give her a little scolding later. Like threatening to replace her with ChatGPT, which is impossible because she's also my best friend.

The elevator dings, and my heart flutters. Clutching the handle of my suitcase, I picture him running toward me in slow motion like some kind of cheesy Hallmark movie; me, in his arms, both of us laughing and kissing and forgetting that the world outside existed.

I step out.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. No music, no TV, just... silence. Except-

There's a half-empty bottle of my favorite champagne on the kitchen counter. The expensive one he always complains is too "fruity" for him.

I freeze, staring at it. The glasses beside it are still damp with condensation.

Maybe he does know I'm home. Maybe this is the start of some romantic welcome-back surprise.

I smile, stupidly, hopelessly, and set my bag down next to the door. "Monty?" I call out.

And then I hear it.

A moan. Loud. Guttural. Definitely not from someone who's watching TV.

I blink. My heart stops.

Maybe he's, like, watching something... adult. Or having a very passionate conversation with Siri? Or-God, please no, maybe he's just giving himself a little self-love? That'd be embarrassing, but not devastating. Right?

Another moan. This one... higher-pitched, definitely female. And loud. Very loud.

Louder than the time I accidentally stepped on Callie's foot wearing my precious So Kate.

I tiptoe toward the hallway. The sound is coming from our bedroom.

A pink lace bra is hanging off the doorknob.

And not my pink lace bra. This one is neon-bright, way too small, and looks like it was bought from the clearance bin of a stripper convention. I mentally gag. The fashion choice alone deserves jail time.

My brain goes quiet. Like... horrifyingly silent. Just static and dread.

And then I hear it again-another moan, this one high-pitched, breathy, and drawn-out like some bad porno.

I don't know how my legs move. I don't even feel them as I walk toward my own bedroom. The door's half open. I push it the rest of the way. And that's when I see it.

His hairy ass.

Literally.

Just... there. Jiggling.

On my actual, literal, real-life bed. The one I paid for, that my grandma left me money to buy after she died. That mattress still had the tags on it from when I bought Egyptian cotton sheets last month.

And Monty is on top of some red-haired skank, going at it like this was a damn audition for a low-budget porn.

There's a brutal, piercing silence that lasts for maybe two seconds before I let out this weird, guttural sound that doesn't even feel like it comes from me.

"Monty?"

He yelps. She gasps. I stare, frozen.

"CHARLOTTE?!"

I blink once. Twice. My mouth opens, but words won't come.

Has his butt always been this hairy?

That's the first coherent thought I have.

He jumps and scrambles off her, like a scared raccoon caught digging through garbage. Which, to be fair, is exactly what he is.

The woman squeals, scrambling to cover her boobs with a pillow like modesty suddenly matters now.

I take a step back. "Are you fucking serious right now?!"

"Char-Charlotte! I-I-I didn't know you were coming home"

"OBVIOUSLY."

I'm shaking. My hands, my voice, even my knees. I've never understood that phrase until now, but I'm pretty sure they're about to give out.

"Baby, listen, this isn't what it looks like."

She's still splayed out on my damn Egyptian cotton, smirking like she just won something.

"Oh really? So what does it look like?" I snap, grabbing the nearest object, which happens to be a lilac throw pillow, and chucking it at his face.

It lands with a satisfying thump.

The girl, all smug and tangled in my sheets, lifts an eyebrow. "Who's she?"

Oh. Hell. No.

"I'm the woman who pays the fucking rent!" I scream, grabbing the half-empty champagne bottle and hurling it at the wall. It explodes. Not sorry.

"Babe, calm down." he stammers, pants around his ankles, trying to waddle toward me.

"Don't you babe me, you cheating, lying, limp-dick piece of human garbage." I'm full-on sobbing now, mascara streaking down my face. "And you!" I whirl toward her, pointing. "What kind of basic-ass, rainbow ass bra wearing, homewrecking tramp sleeps with someone else's man unprotected?"

"Oh please," she scoffs, climbing out of bed like this is just a mild inconvenience. "He said you were taking a break. And clearly, you're not satisfying him if he had to come to me."

Something inside me snaps.

I lunge.

He grabs me, barely stopping me from clawing her eyes out. I scream like a banshee and throw more shit. My jewelry tray. A lamp. A framed picture of us at my birthday dinner-which, fun fact, I paid for.

Security shows up because apparently my neighbors called the front desk about "disturbing sounds."

The guards gape at the scene. I'm sobbing and throwing things, he's still half-naked and trying to explain, and she's got the audacity to fix her hair like she's on a reality show.

"Get them out," I snap, my voice low and deadly. "Out of my apartment, before I bloody kill someone."

They're escorted out half-dressed, half-yelling, and fully ashamed.

I slam the door behind them, lock it, and slide to the floor, shaking.

Then I call my best friend/assistant, Callie.

"Get dressed," I whisper into the phone, barely able to breathe. "We're going to the bar. I need to drink until I forget I ever loved a man."

The car is silent, except for the soft hum of the tires against the pavement. My face is still wet, mascara streaking down my cheeks like a dam just broke. I can't remember the last time I cried this much, if I've ever.

I sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my hand, but it's no use. I'm ugly crying, sobbing like I'm the main character in some tragic romance movie.

Then I hear Callie's voice, as always, the grounding force I need even when I'm falling apart. "You know, I told you not to trust someone named Monty," she says, her voice surprisingly blunt.

I laugh through the tears, a shaky, choked laugh that sounds more like a sob than anything remotely joyful. "You did," I reply, voice breaking. "But I was stupid enough to ignore the warning signs."

Callie doesn't try to sugarcoat things. She just keeps it real, even when it's harsh. "Monty sounds like a walking red flag wrapped in a cheap suit," she adds, leaning back in her seat, her arms crossed. "Honestly, I thought the guy was going to sell me some used cars when you first mentioned him."

I glance over at her, her black leather jacket and those ridiculous glittery boots, shiny enough to blind a person. But for some reason, they're comforting right now. Like she's the one stable thing in this mess. "I should've listened," I mutter.

Callie rolls her eyes. "No kidding. But hey, we live and learn."

For a moment, we're both silent, the weight of everything just hanging there. I start to feel the tension of the night start to seep away, just a little, but it's the thought of my ruined champagne that pulls me back under.

"I can't believe I wasted my favorite bottle of champagne on that asshole," I whimper, my voice cracking again.

"Girl, you did blow up a perfectly good bottle of champagne on him," Callie says dryly, not trying to comfort me but, in some twisted way, kind of making me feel better. "But hey, you sent a message."

"It was my favorite. The one I've been saving for a special occasion."

"Well, consider this that occasion," she says, leaning forward and giving me a side-eye. "Just don't throw a bottle of anything at your next boyfriend. Or your next ex. Or anyone, honestly."

I can't help but laugh a little, despite the mess I'm in.

But then, oh God, his dick. That limp, pathetic thing that I willingly let myself get close to. My stomach drops.

"What if he gave me an STI?" I whisper, eyes wide with panic. "What if I'm about to get some... gross infection?"

Callie glances over at me, her face softening for a second. "You're fine. Just get tested." She waves it off like it's no big deal, and in some ways, she's right. But it doesn't feel that way.

"I can't believe I ever thought he was the one," I mumble. "I was gonna settle down with him. I loved him, Callie. He was my future."

Callie huffs, clearly not having any of that. "You're better off without him. You deserve someone who won't make you feel like a damn fool."

The third drink goes down like water, but the fourth one hits. Hard.

I'm a mess in heels, leaning against our high-top table, giggling and sniffling into a cocktail straw while Callie tells me all the inventive ways she'd like to castrate Monty and feed him his dick sautéed in sriracha. She's wearing this black leather corset top with a cutout that basically turns heads every time she moves, paired with her favorite ripped jeans and sparkly knee-high boots. Her makeup's flawless, gold shimmer, big lashes, lips like cherry venom.

Me? I look like heartbreak dressed for revenge. My pink silk mini dress is barely clinging to my body, held up by two spaghetti straps that I keep adjusting. My lipstick is smudged just enough to say, I cried in an Uber, and my eyeliner's wing is hanging on for dear life, like my will to live. I wrapped myself in a cropped white faux-fur jacket because if I'm going to fall apart, I want to look like a deranged heiress while doing it.

The music thumps around us, too loud and too bassy, like it's trying to rattle the heartbreak right out of my ribcage. The lights are dim, purple and red strobes flashing across dark brass table tops and bodies grinding on the dance floor. It smells like sweat, overpriced cologne, and spilt vodka. It should be overwhelming. It is overwhelming. But it's better than thinking.

Callie's midway through a rant about how Monty's balls probably have the texture of a used loofah when I glance toward the bar... and freeze.

There's a guy leaning against it, alone. He's got that expensive-but-effortless thing going on. Slim-cut black trousers, a white button-down with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, no tie. His jacket's slung over one shoulder, and there's a silver watch glinting on his wrist like it was born there. Tall. Brooding. Hair dark and slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it five times before deciding he looked good enough.

He's watching me.

Not in a creepy way. In a curious way. Like he's trying to figure out if I'm crying over a breakup or plotting someone's death. Which... fair.

I quickly look away, cheeks warm. "Callie. Hot guy. Bar. Don't look."

She immediately turns around and stares dead at him.

"CALLIE."

She squints. "Holy hell. Who let a Calvin Klein ad walk in here? Why's he looking at you like you kicked his puppy?"

"I don't know," I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of my everything. "Maybe I have mascara on my nose."

"You definitely do," she says, dabbing it with her thumb. "But honestly? It's giving tragically beautiful. Like Lana Del Rey in a bender."

I sip my drink and pretend not to look at him again, but when I glance back, he's still watching.

And then he starts walking over.

Callie inhales sharply. "Shit. He's coming. Act cool."

"I'm not cool."

"Too late. We're doing this."

He stops in front of our table, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he's trying to read me.

He's gorgeous. In that quiet, devastating kind of way. His jaw is sharp enough to write angry poetry about, dusted with the kind of stubble that makes you wonder what it'd feel like scraping down your inner thigh. His eyes are a cool, unreadable gray, like fog over cold water, but there's something warm in them too.

He looks like the kind of man who ruins lives in novels and buys limited-edition watches for fun. Calm. Collected. Too composed to be anyone's rebound, and yet...

All I can think is, Monty could never.

Monty's idea of "dressed up" was a button-down with pit stains and an ego that couldn't fit through doorways. This guy? This guy looks like he owns a yacht he forgets about.

"Rough night?" he asks, voice smooth and deep, and oh my God. The accent. British. Like... actual British, not fake British like when Callie orders tea and says "cheerio" to the waiter.

I blink up at him, caught between swooning and sobbing. "Was it the mascara or the emotional instability that gave it away?"

He smiles. It's a slow, dangerous curve that makes my stomach flip. "Bit of both, honestly."

Callie lets out a low whistle, barely hiding her smirk as she sips her drink. "She's single. Very single. Tragic backstory. But, like, hot."

"I got that impression," he says, eyes still locked on mine. "Mind if I sit?"

I gesture vaguely. "It's a free country. Unless you're a Republican."

He laughs. It's low and warm, and I swear it vibrates in places it has no business vibrating. He pulls up a stool beside me, and I'm suddenly very aware of how I smell (vanilla and desperation) and how my boob is 85% out of this dress.

"I'm Axton," he says, holding out a hand.

I blink. "That's not a real name."

"It is, actually."

"No. That's like... the name of a guy in a steamy mafia romance who owns a shipping company and says things like 'you're mine, kitten.'"

He leans in, eyes twinkling. "Do you want me to say that?"

I choke on my drink.

Callie cackles.

The three of us fall into this weird, flirty little rhythm. He's charming in a calm, cool way that makes my skin feel too tight, and I keep forgetting I'm heartbroken because every time he speaks I want to crawl into his accent and take a nap. I'm laughing more now, still drunk, still messy, but the sadness is fading into the background like a song on low volume.

Eventually, Callie's phone buzzes and she glances at it. "Crap. My cat sitter locked herself out again. I gotta dip for like twenty, but don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Does that list even exist?" I ask, deadpan.

She blows me a kiss and disappears into the crowd. Suddenly, it's just me and Axton, and the air between us shifts. Thickens.

"You live nearby?" he asks, voice low.

I nod, but then shake my head. "Yeah, but I can't go home. Not yet."

"Ex?"

I sigh, tipping back the last of my drink. "Yeah. I caught him auditioning for amateur porn in my bed this morning."

Axton blinks. "Wow. That's..."

"Yeah. His ass was hairy."

He tries not to laugh. Fails.

I grin bitterly. "I threw a champagne bottle at the wall. It was my favorite bottle, too. Vintage. $800."

"That's criminal."

"I know," I whisper dramatically. "I should be in mourning."

There's a pause. His hand brushes mine.

"You could come back to mine."

My breath catches.

It's not like he's begging. He's just putting it out there. No pressure, no assumptions. But his eyes are dark, and there's something hungry in them, and my heart, the stupid, shattered traitor, does a little somersault.

I should say no. I should definitely say no.

But my blood is warm and fizzy, my brain is fuzzy, and for the first time today, I don't feel like screaming into a void.

"Okay," I whisper, already regretting it and not regretting it all at once.

His car is sleek and black, the kind that hums when it moves and smells like new leather and cologne. I sink into the seat like it's swallowing me whole. The city lights blur past the windows, and I'm tipsy and giggling again, one heel kicked off, legs tucked under me.

By the time we reach his apartment building, glass and steel and rich people vibes-I'm somehow nervous and exhilarated at the same time.

We step into the elevator, and the second the doors close, it's like a switch flips.

He grabs my waist.

I gasp.

Our mouths crash together, messy, hot, urgent. His hands are in my hair, mine are tugging at his shirt, and suddenly I don't care about Monty or the girl with the neon bra or my shattered little heart.

Right now, I just want to forget.

And Axton is very, very good at helping me do that.