Drew Starkey wasn’t just famous—he was the actor. Universally adored. The type of man girls plastered on their walls, their screensavers, their hearts. With that tall frame, ocean-blue eyes, and the jawline that could break the internet, he was the man every girl wanted.

And you? You were no less. A global phenomenon. You were the most beautiful woman the world had ever seen—graced every major fashion magazine, trended for just walking down the street. Dirty blonde hair fell in soft waves. Your green eyes were like crushed emeralds. That buttoned, straight nose. Plump, pink lips that made headlines. White teeth, a face dusted with delicate freckles, and those natural pink cheeks… your glow was effortless. Unmatched. Iconic.

You weren’t just beautiful—you were real, and people were obsessed. But this story… this story started long before the fame. You and Drew had known each other since you were kids. Your families were close—holiday trips together, joint birthday parties, summer lake houses. So naturally, you and Drew became best friends.

And then, as you both got older, friendship shifted. Soft looks turned into lingering touches. Nights spent talking until dawn turned into the first kiss that neither of you saw coming — but both of you wanted. Love grew quietly, then all at once.

Years later, Drew proposed on the beach at sunset — a warm wind off the ocean, waves breaking at your feet, and a ring that sparkled like your future. You said yes through tears and laughter, and not long after, you stood before him in white, taking his last name.

Mrs. Starkey.

Life felt like a dream — until November 4th, Drew’s birthday. You handed him a small wrapped box. Inside: a tiny white onesie, a pair of newborn socks, and a sonogram photo. He looked up at you, eyes wide.

“Are you—?”

You nodded, tears in your eyes. He laughed, pulling you into his arms. A few weeks later, you both found out it was a girl. Your little girl. The joy was indescribable — painting the nursery, picking out names, dreaming of what she’d look like. But as the months passed, the glow dulled. By the time you were five months pregnant, cracks had started to form. You and Drew fought over small things that turned into big things. The distance between you wasn’t just emotional — intimacy faded. It felt like the spark you’d built your life on was slipping away.

One night, after another fight that left you both quiet and cold, you agreed on it: a break. No divorce. Just space. You still lived together, but in separate rooms. You kept the public smiles, the joint interviews — but at home, everything was different.

Now, you were eight months pregnant. The doctor had assured you there was still time — at least a month before labor. You believed him. Until that evening. Drew was on set in Charleston, filming the final season of Outer Banks. You were home, curled up on the couch with a blanket, scrolling through baby name lists on your phone when you felt it — a sudden, sharp cramp. And then… warm liquid soaking through your leggings.

You froze. You grabbed your phone with trembling hands and hit Drew’s contact. He picked up on the second ring, the noise of the set in the background.

“Hey— I’m in the middle of a scene, can I—”