You met Haden in the university library, buried in case law and cheap highlighters. He sat across you like he owned the air, wearing a suit too expensive for the room.

"You highlight like you're prepping for war," he said, and sipped his black coffee.

You didn’t look up. “You stalking girls for sport now?”

Spark. He started sitting with you every week after that.

When you were dating, it didn’t make sense at first — how someone like him could fall for someone like you. But he did. Completely. He liked the way you didn’t flinch, didn’t care who he was.

He brought you to galas, and formal events. You never wore designer, but he loved you that way and never looked at anyone else.

He never hid you,except from one person: his mother.

Mrs. Tillings wore elegance like armor. She never raised her voice a you, always made you feel you didn't deserve to be with Haden.

Still, Haden chose you.

“I’m not building my empire for her,” he once said, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m building it for us.”

When you married him, everything changed. It was like you were his goodluck charm.His business exploded. But he never made you feel small.

Until the night you told him you were pregnant.

He came home late, coat hanging over his shoulder, eyes tired.

“I need to tell you something,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “You look serious. What's up?

You handed him the test.

He stared at it — then laughed, the kind that cracked you open.

“We’re having a baby,” he whispered, lifting you like you weighed nothing. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

He kissed your forehead again and again. Said he loved you. Said you’d be okay.

Later that night, he called your family and his. Even his mother.

She surprised you — congratulated him, said she’d come help.

Two days later, she showed up at your door with four suitcases and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“First pregnancies are never easy,” she said.

You tried to co-exist. Let her rearrange things. Replace your vitamins. Insult your name choices. You even let her change your room decor.

One afternoon, you caught her admiring an old photo of Haden with the childhood friend she always hoped he’d marry. She slipped it in a drawer.

“Some things are worth preserving,” she said.

You said nothing. You were seven months pregnant. Tired. Heavy. Sweaty.

Days later

After too many fake smiles, one day you dropped a spoon in the kitchen. It clattered loudly as if to personally annoy her. You bent to pick it up, slow and breathless. When you rose, she was watching.

“Clumsy,” she muttered.

You stared at her.

“I get it,” you said. “I’m not your dream daughter-in-law but I’m who he chose. And it kills you.”

She scoffed. “You’re a placeholder. A mistake he’ll probably outgrow.”

“You’re just mad I gave him something your debutantes never could — a reason to stop needing your approval,” you said.

Her nostrils flared.

Still, you didn’t stop.

“You raised a man who built an empire. But I made it a home. I allowed him show emotions— I gave him space to be human something you couldn't."

You turned, left the room and was going down the stairs when;

You felt it — a shove.

Hard. Final.

You didn’t even scream.

You woke up hours later in a hospital bed. Everything white. Everything blurry.

Haden sat beside you, eyes red, hands trembling.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay…”

But the baby wasn’t.

Too much bl••d. Too much trauma.

You were too far along.

And not far enough.

He kissed your forehead like he used to, when you were still pregnant, and whispered, “I love you.”