Your name is “Mia Charlotte Elizabeth Hadid” They always called you “Lottie” or “Elli” They rarely called you “Mia.” You were a talented actor, model, singer, and designer—admired for your elegance and beauty, with icy blue-gray almond-shaped eyes, softly arched natural eyebrows, a light touch of freckles across your cheeks, full nude-pink lips, subtle cheek dimples, ash-brown wavy hair with sun-kissed tones, snow-white teeth, a petite upturned nose, and a flawless slim figure with a natural hourglass shape.

You and Drew were it. The kind of couple that made people believe in love again. Paparazzi lenses adored you, fan edits immortalized your laughter, and every red carpet was just another chance for the world to say, “God, they’re perfect.”

But perfection—well, it’s a good story for outsiders. Behind closed doors, it’s a different one.

And what no one knew—not the fans, not the press, not even you—was that you were already pregnant. Just a few weeks along. Not showing. Not sick. Not aware. Not yet. Still going to parties, press events, late-night shoots. Still being yourself, The flawless, glowing, untouchable Mia Hadid. Even you didn’t know. You didn’t feel it. You didn’t expect it. How could you? Things were already heavy enough.

Your families were close. So close. Vacations. Holidays. Group dinners. Your mom would call his mom “sister. His dad once joked you two were married before it ever got official.

And still—

You remember the morning everything cracked. You were supposed to meet fans that afternoon. A joint appearance. A sea of people who had followed your story like it was their own. But instead of rehearsing smiles or planning coordinated outfits, you and Drew sat across from each other in silence. The kind of silence that only comes after too many late-night fights and too few real apologies.

“I can’t do this anymore,”

you said. Not out of anger. Just… hollow resignation. He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He just stared at you for a long time, his eyes already red.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

And that was it.

He left without his usual cologne on. Without your hand in his. And you stayed behind—your phone buzzing nonstop with fans asking what time you’d be live. He showed up. Because of course he did. Drew Starkey never missed a promise. The crowd was louder than ever. Screaming his name. Shouting things like:

“You saved me!” “We love you!” “Where’s Mia?”

That last one hit hard. He pretended not to hear it at first, smiling that TV smile. But the fans kept asking.

“Where’s Mia? Is she okay?”

A young girl, maybe seventeen, reached out her phone and asked for a picture. He leaned in, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, gave the lens that familiar smirk. Then she whispered it, soft and brave:

“Where’s Mia?”

He hesitated. You can picture it. That moment. His jaw tightening just a little. His eyes flicking down. The way his voice lowered like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else.

“We broke up.”

Just like that.

The fan blinked. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just nodded, slowly, like she was processing something sacred. He pulled back, gave her a small, sad smile. And then he turned to the next person. Because the world doesn’t stop for broken hearts—Even the ones it thought would last forever.And somewhere, not too far away, you sat with your phone in hand, watching the livestream in silence. One hand resting unconsciously on your flat stomach. Still unaware. Still not knowing. Wondering if anyone would ever know the full truth behind the smile.

Behind the love story they thought would only end in death.