Chapter 1: That's Not a Discussion
Sophia's POV
I'm standing outside Ethan's office, palms sweating. The envelope in my hand feels heavy. Inside is the fake ultrasound I paid $3,000 for at some sketchy clinic in Queens.
Through the crack in the door, Ethan's voice drifts out. Low and warm in a way I've never heard in three years.
"Did you confirm the reservation for tonight? And the flowers. White roses. Make sure they're white roses. She likes white roses."
A pause.
"The necklace is ready? Good. Tonight has to be perfect."
My heart drops.
Bailey. He's going back to her.
The memory hits me. One week ago at Ethan's birthday party in the Hamptons, I played the dutiful contract wife. Smiled through champagne toasts while guests whispered just loud enough for me to hear. "Bailey's coming back. That poor girl's about to get dumped."
I downed tequila after tequila until the room spun. Ethan had his share of whiskey too, playing the gracious host.
Late that night, we walked along the beach. Moonlight on the waves. Salt air. Then I started crying. Ugly, messy tears I couldn't stop. Ethan actually tried to comfort me. His hand on my shoulder. His voice soft, uncertain.
"Hey, don't... don't cry."
What happened next was a blur of heat and desperation. The guest cottage. Our clothes on the floor. His body pressing into mine. The sharp pain of my first time, followed by something that felt heartbreakingly good. His breath hot against my ear, groaning my name like it meant something.
The next morning, we both pretended nothing happened. Separate cars back to Boston. Polite nods over breakfast.
Then Bailey's Instagram story appeared. "Coming home to fix what I left behind."
I called Mia in a panic. She gave me the idea. Terrible, brilliant, desperate.
"Look, you two hooked up a week ago. Who's gonna know if you're really pregnant or not? Get a fake report, shake him down for cash. You're getting kicked to the curb anyway. He's loaded. It's pocket change to him."
It felt like a shitty plan. But I needed that money before he threw me out. The fake ultrasound was my insurance policy. My ticket out before I became yesterday's news.
Now I'm here.
I push open the door without knocking. Ethan's reviewing documents, an expensive pen poised over a contract. I walk straight to his desk and throw the envelope down. It lands with a soft thud that sounds louder than it should.
Ethan stares at the envelope. His whole body goes rigid. The pen slips from his fingers and drops onto the carpet.
He looks up. Those blue eyes lock onto mine.
"What is this?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
"A pregnancy report." I bite my lip, forcing my voice to shake. "From last week. Your birthday. The Hamptons."
Ethan shoots to his feet. "We had a clause, Sophia. A fucking clause!"
I take a step back, letting my eyes well up. "You were drunk. I was drunk. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry."
The tears come. Half real because he looks like he might explode, half performance because I need him to believe I'm just as shocked.
Ethan stares at me for a long moment. Then takes a deep breath. What he says next is the last thing I expect.
"How much?"
I blink. "What?"
He picks up his phone. "How much money do you want?"
Ten thousand? Fifty? I was hoping for a hundred at most.
"I don't know. Medical bills, and..."
His fingers fly over the screen. Three seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Bank Alert: +$500,000.00
I stare at the notification. My fake tears turn real from shock. Half a million dollars. He just gave me half a million dollars.
"Take care of my child." His voice is ice-cold now. All business. "I'll arrange for the best doctors to monitor you regularly."
"That's not necessary. I can handle it."
"That's not a discussion."
He presses the intercom. "Jessica, get me Dr. Henderson at the hospital. I need a prenatal care appointment set up by tomorrow morning."
Panic claws at my throat. If a real doctor examines me, the whole scheme collapses.
I grab my purse. "I need to go."
"Sophia."
I freeze but don't turn around.
"I have a reservation tonight. Seven o'clock. We need to discuss arrangements."
"Okay." My voice comes out small.
But I already know I won't show up. I can't sit there watching him plan a future while thinking about Bailey. About white roses. About the necklace he bought for someone who isn't me.
The moment the taxi pulls away from Ethan's building, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
My phone keeps buzzing. Bank notifications. Transaction details. Confirmation codes. Five hundred thousand dollars. More than my student loans. More than what my foster parents have been demanding for three years. More than I ever imagined having.
This is it. This is my way out. Away from this fake marriage. Away from their endless demands. Away from watching him go back to the woman he actually loves.
But why does my chest hurt so much? Why do I feel like I'm running away from something I desperately want to stay for?
I shake my head, wiping away tears that keep falling. Get it together, Sophia. He gave you half a million dollars to disappear. Take the hint.
By five o'clock, I'm back at the townhouse in Beacon Hill. Throwing clothes into my suitcase like my life depends on it.
Clothes. Passport. Laptop. The jewelry Ethan gave me over three years. Cold, expensive gifts that meant nothing but could be sold for cash.
My fingers brush against the small ballet slipper pendant. The only thing my real mother left me. I clutch it to my chest for a moment before dropping it into my purse.
On the dining table, I place the signed divorce papers with a short note.
Ethan, I'm sorry. This marriage was supposed to end anyway. Thank you for three years. Bailey's back. You two can start over. I'll take care of the baby. He or she won't interfere with your life. – Sophia
A knock. "Mrs. Blackwood, are you going out? Should I have the driver prepare the car?"
Mrs. Peterson stands in the doorway. Concern flickering across her professional expression.
"No, thank you." I force a smile. "I'm just staying with a friend for a few days."
Her eyes linger on my overstuffed suitcase. On the way my hands are shaking. But she says nothing. Just nods with that professional discretion she's perfected over fifteen years.
I take one last look at the townhouse. Three years of pretending to be Mrs. Blackwood. Three years of sleeping in separate rooms. Three years of playing the perfect wife at family dinners while knowing I'd never belong.
Then I walk out the door.
At 7:15 PM, Ethan sits alone at the restaurant. The white roses on the table mock him. He checks his phone for the tenth time. No messages.
7:30 PM. He dials her number.
"The number you have called is currently switched off."
He tries again. And again. And again.
His jaw tightens. Sophia has never turned off her phone before. Not in three years.
"Mr. Blackwood, the board meeting at ten..." His assistant starts cautiously.
But Ethan is already gone. Leaving the white roses and the untouched table behind.
His car tears through Boston's streets, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
