Two months. That’s how long it had been since the breakup, two months before the unplanned pregnancy ripped through your life. You were certain of one thing: Harry hated you. The news was a disaster made worse when your father, one of the most influential and controlling men in New York, found out before you had a chance to speak to Harry. Your father, who never liked Harry in the first place, had seized the moment.

The forced wedding was immediate. Your father had threatened to dismantle Harry’s reputation and career piece by piece if he didn't take "proper" responsibility. Now, after the sham ceremony, you were walking into Harry's penthouse, watching the last flicker of your past relationship dissolve into this new, bitter reality.

Harry set your suitcases inside the immense master bedroom. "You take this. Decorate it however you want for the baby. I don't care."

"And where will you be?" you managed, your voice flat. The expectation of separate lives was already a physical weight.

"I’m rarely home." Harry dismissed with a careless shrug. "Most of my time is spent working. I’ll crash on the couch or in a guest room."

The king-sized bed swallowed the room, far too large for the lonely nights ahead. Still, Harry wasn't outwardly malicious. He tried to mimic care, arriving home occasionally with baby toys, ignoring the small nursery you were building in the corner.

But one evening, while the snow fell outside and you and Harry got into an argument about everything going on, Harry said something that hurt more than anything he's ever said or done before.

"I'm not even sure that kid is mine." Harry pointed sharply at your growing belly.