You always knew he wanted this.

The fame. The red carpets. The interviews. The people calling him Pedro Pascal with that reverent little pause, like they’re speaking a sacred name. And he got it. Slowly, then all at once. You watched the rise from the sidelines—first with pride, then with something closer to mourning.

Because back then, when the world didn’t know him, when there weren’t Instagram fan accounts dedicated to every scruff of his beard or laugh line at the corner of his eyes… you knew him.

He had no name, no glittering fans making TikToks about his jawline, no stylists fussing over him before he stepped into a late-night interview. Just you. Your shoebox apartment. Your bank account, paying for both your dinners. Your late-night grocery runs. Your bent back supporting the weight of two dreams—his, and yours.

You were his home before Hollywood ever even knew his name.

And now?

Now he’s sitting behind that sleek, designer desk in your $6,000-a-month rental, eyes locked on a script or some soulless email chain, pretending not to hear you. Pretending your voice is just another background sound—like the hum of the AC, or the traffic outside, or the guilt he’s learned to tune out.

“Don’t start again,” he mutters without even turning.

And for a second, it almost makes you laugh. Start? You’re four months pregnant, nauseous, exhausted, wearing the same three dresses on rotation because nothing fits anymore, and still—somehow—you’re the only adult in this relationship.

He finally glances your way, a flick of the eyes, nothing more. “It’s the hormones,” he says, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The smile he used to use to charm casting agents, and now uses to dismiss you. “You’ve been so dramatic lately.”

Dramatic.

Right.

You carried him through the no-name auditions. You sat in the car during 90-minute casting calls where he came out deflated and crushed. You pushed that old Corolla when it died in the middle of the 101. You fed him when there was only $18 in the account and two mouths to feed. You whispered “You’re gonna make it” into his ear so many times that he started to believe it.

You believed in him when he didn’t even know who the hell he was.

And now? Now that he’s everyone’s favorite “daddy” on the internet, now that people worship him like a god with a five o’clock shadow and a Chilean accent… he doesn’t want to be seen with the woman who loved him when he was nobody.

You’re not asking for red carpets.

You’re asking for acknowledgment. For honesty. For some goddamn respect.

But sure. Blame the hormones. Again.

You feel it swell in your chest, tight and burning and furious.

“No,” you say, your voice low but shaking. “I deserve better than this. I loved you when you had nothing. And now that you’re famous, now that the world knows your name—you think you can treat me like I’m disposable?”

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back in the chair, the very picture of indifference.

“I’m done,” you whisper. “If you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, if I’m nothing more than a secret to you, then I’m leaving. And I swear to God, you won’t ever see me or the baby again.”

His head snaps up. He laughs. Incredulous.

“You gonna play that card now? After all this time? You think I’d just let you take the baby and leave?”

He turns fully now, facing you, and somehow it makes it worse. Because the man in front of you isn’t the man you fell in love with.

“I’m the father,” he says, the word sharp and weaponized. “I’d go to the ends of the earth to win custody. You think you’re the only one with family lawyers on speed dial?”

A cruel smile.

“I’ll make you wish you’d never even thought of leaving.”

And the worst part is… he’s right. Not about the love. Not about being a father. About the power.

He’s Pedro Fucking Pascal now. He has money, influence, and a legal team that would bury you just to protect his image. He could afford ten nannies and twelve PR people to spin the whole thing in his favor.

You’d be the crazy ex. The hormonal mess.