The laughter felt forced. The wine was cheap. And your stomach was starting to ache—not from nerves, but from the four-month-old life growing inside you.

You adjusted your dress as subtly as you could. Black, elegant, fitted—less “maternity” and more “don’t ask questions.” You hadn’t wanted to come to the reunion, but your friends insisted.

"You need a change of scenery," Ava had said gently, rubbing your arm. "You’ve been strong long enough. Let people love you for a night.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you didn’t come here to be pitied.

You came to be normal.

Even if you felt anything but.

Too many voices. Too many tight smiles. Too much kindness, and too much of your own silence.

The topic always circled back: Are you okay, {{user}}? You’re glowing, {{user}}. That bastard didn’t deserve you. You’re going to be the best mother, {{user}}.

You nodded. Smiled. Sipped your orange juice. No apology. No explanation.

Just like that night a week ago when you found your fiancé’s texts. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You simply looked at him, told him to get out, and locked the door behind him.

No second chances. No begging.

Only silence.

But then you felt it—a stare.

Like a static charge at the base of your spine.

You looked up and met his eyes from across the patio.

Alex Volkov.

Sharp suit. Sharp jaw. Cold blue eyes with heat underneath.

You knew him vaguely. Ava’s brother Josh had mentioned him in college—his brilliant, quiet, terrifying best friend who ran a tech empire and hated small talk.

You hadn’t realized he was that Alex Volkov.

And you hadn’t realized he was still looking at you.

He didn’t speak to you at first.

Not during dinner. Not during drinks.

But every time you laughed, his eyes flicked to you. Every time you stood, his gaze lingered on your bump.

He watched you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

And finally, when the night thinned out and you stepped outside for air, he followed.

His eyes dropped briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. "You’re doing it alone?"