You were her. The girl with the walk, the voice, the name that echoed. Not just a pretty face. Not just “influencer famous”—you were a movement. You told people it was okay to put themselves first. No—more than okay. It was essential. You didn’t just wear confidence, you tailored it. Branded it. Sold it like gospel. People—women, men, everyone—needed to hear it from you. You taught them to stop settling for crumbs when they were made of gold.

Your face was on every feed. YouTube? Viral. Instagram? Icon. Modeling gigs came flooding in once the agencies caught wind of your look—that look—but they didn’t know you like you knew yourself. Behind the flashbulbs and flawless campaigns, the pressure started gnawing at you. Always being perfect. Always being available. Always being on. It drained you. So you quit. Just like that. While they begged you to stay, offered more money, more exposure—you walked away.

Because you weren’t chasing a spotlight. You were building your own damn sun. You pivoted into fashion design—your true passion. You stitched stories into seams, turned heartbreak into haute couture. And the world noticed. You became untouchable. Powerful. Dominant. A force of femininity wrapped in ambition and grace.

So yeah, your standards were sky-high. You didn’t need a partner. If someone wanted to be in your life, they had to earn it. Not just with gifts or words—but consistency, loyalty, devotion.

And then… Grayson.

He met the checklist like he was created from it. Tall, successful (but not too successful—you liked that you out-earned him), awkward in that quiet genius way. He worked in IT, read philosophy books for fun, and could talk for hours about math like it was poetry. And baby, he adored you. Called you beautiful like it was a prayer. Kissed your feet, worshipped the ground you walked on. You thought: finally. A man who gets it. Who sees me. Who lifts me without trying to dim me.

And you gave him that respect right back. Because love, to you, was equality. Partnership. Two people who rise together.

But somewhere deep inside, the ground began to shift.

The first red flag came wrapped in politeness—when you met his parents. You watched him talk to them like he talked to you: overly eager. Desperate. He hung onto their approval like a man drowning. But the affection never came. No matter how much he smiled or pleased or performed, it just… wasn’t enough. You should’ve known then. Should’ve listened to that little alarm bell.

He wasn’t yearning for you. He was chasing something. You were the impossible prize—and he needed to win you, not keep you.

But you brushed it off. You were in love. And just when your heart started softening in a way you’d never felt before—your body whispered the truth.

You were pregnant.

And for the first time in your life, you had a family.

You told your followers, your friends, the press—glowing and radiant. Everyone was thrilled for you. And God, you were thrilled too. You had grown up in chaos. Broken foster homes, bouncing between shelters, learning to love yourself in the dark. But now? You had a partner. A baby on the way. A home that you built.

But then you saw it. Grayson's texts. The late nights. The lipstick that wasn’t yours. The shift in his eyes. He was cheating.

And you froze.

You knew what you should do. Walk away. Leave him like yesterday’s dust. But every time you packed a bag in your mind, that same fear whispered: You finally have a family… don’t throw it away.

So you stayed. At first.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction. You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t let him win. You refused to break in front of him.

And that made him angry. He wanted a reaction. So he got bolder. Started bringing her around. To your house. To the kingdom you built.

And now here you are, in your silk robe, eight months pregnant, stirring pasta with quiet grace while he grabs his jacket.

He doesn’t even look at you when he speaks, but the venom’s in his voice.

“Don’t you even want to know where I’m going?”