I remember sitting on the bed wrapped in a blanket, trying very hard to be calm as I told him, "It was an accident."
We’d been friends for so many years and worked so well together; if this drove a wedge between us, it would be a huge loss for both of us.
So we treated it like an accident. After the initial embarrassment faded, we both agreed to never mention it again and slowly slipped back into our old rhythm.
Mostly because everyone had been blackout drunk that night — there were hardly any clear memories.
— Thank God.
It would have remained a silent, forgettable accident, except I found out I was pregnant.
After agonizing over it for three days, I decided to ask Ethan to break up. No, wait. To accept my resignation.
1
He was flipping through quarterly reports from every department without even lifting an eyelid, shooting off a string of picky reprimands. He looked irritable.
This was not the moment to antagonize him, so I shut up and kept quiet like a little quail, obediently listening to him scold. As expected, his ire eventually landed on me. He asked, "You’re my chief assistant. I pay you that kind of salary every month — is this how you handle things?"
What had I done to deserve this? Why was I being blamed for other departments’ badly written reports? I was just his assistant.
Working for him was no picnic. Ethan was a perfectionist and hard to please; every dollar I earned came from blood and sweat.
It wasn’t enough to handle my regular assistant duties. I had to keep track of everything happening in the company and fend off its impossible board members without putting a foot wrong. Then there was his obsessive need for control, especially over his private space. He hated outsiders entering it, so looking after his personal life fell to me too.
First were his "companions." He bored of people quickly and expected me to handle the breakups.
Almost every month, I sat across from some woman in a cafe while she sobbed about how much she loved Ethan. The fierier ones would dump a cup of coffee over my head. I’d wipe my own face with a tissue, calmly hand over a check, and say, “If you’re still angry, you can tear this up too.”
Then I’d warn her, “Of course, P.R. never reissues checks or honors damaged ones.”
After I became his assistant, my phone never once turned off — not one minute. I didn’t dare even set Do Not Disturb.
So you see, with that kind of workload, his high salary was absolutely justified.
Do you think I made easy money?
I earned every cent with my sweat.
Never mind. Thinking about all that just made me miserable.
I blew out a long sigh.
Ethan finally finished the market report and glanced at me, eyebrow raised. "Why are you still standing there like a post? Not had enough scolding?"
I clenched my fists, thinking, I’m quitting anyway — I’m the queen now!
I straightened my shoulders and bolstered myself. He had that laser focus in his gaze that could make anyone wilt, so I took a breath and whispered, "I… I… want to resign."
He slapped the report down on the table, leaned back in his chair, scanned me head to toe, then fixed his gaze on my face with a frown. Under that look I trembled; he started twirling his pen — a nervous habit he’d had since school. When he was unsure or annoyed, he’d play with a pen. While spinning it he asked, "Why?"
I scraped my foot against the carpet. "I’m exhausted. I want to rest for a while."
He snorted. "I can give you a month… half a month off. Is that enough? If not, I’ll give you twenty days."
I closed my eyes and decided to go all in. "Ethan, I’m pregnant."
The pen clattered off the desk and rolled to the floor. He went pale, jaw slack, staring at me in shock. "What did you say?"
Then his face hardened as realization dawned — he must’ve remembered that drunken night three months ago.
I watched his expressions shift, finally settling into a sullen, stormy look. "When did you find out?"
I stayed quiet. He guessed, "Right — three days ago you asked for leave and said you were going to the hospital."
He snapped to it, cold and sharp-eyed. "Resign? And then what? You planning on doing one of those CEO-novels’ ‘run while pregnant’ schemes?"
He actually knew that trope — impressive.
But honestly, with Ethan being the heir of the Carter family, there was no way I’d make that kind of decision myself. If I tried to run off pregnant and he found out later, there’d be no rom-com reconciliation — he’d rip me apart. He absolutely hated betrayal and deception from anyone close.
I couldn’t even imagine hiding a pregnancy from him.
Back in freshman year when I first joined the student council, a senior often took advantage of me — making me do errands, buy meals, and then not paying me back. I was too timid to fight back until Ethan found out.
He must have come straight from gym, because he was carrying a basketball. He had no gentlemanly qualms about intimidating a girl. He hurled it just past her ear, and it slammed into the empty space behind her. Pointing at me, he told the senior, “She’s under my protection. Got it?” Both the senior and I were trembling.
The senior went pale. I was on the verge of tears, about to thank him, and instead he pressed a finger to my forehead and barked, "Are you a pig? If someone bullies you, you just take it? Why didn’t you come to me? Is there anything you need to hide from me?"
Anything to hide from me?
After that, except for one thing, I never hid anything from him again.
So when I discovered I was pregnant, after all the worrying, handing the problem over to him felt like a huge relief.
A weight lifted off my chest. I sat back at the conference table, tore into a small cake on the desk, and watched him like a caged animal pacing.
The rustle of the wrapper probably broke his concentration — he frowned at me. I bit the cake and, with as much righteousness as I could muster, stroked my belly and said, "I’m tired."
He choked on a reply and swallowed it. He was rarely beaten, and I couldn’t help feeling elated.
So this was what they meant about a mother’s status rising with her child’s. After years of putting up with him, I finally had the upper hand.
How long it would last, I didn’t know.
2
Ethan came with me for another checkup.
The first time I went alone I was too nervous to pay attention. Now with him there, we sat shoulder to shoulder watching the ultrasound screen and gawking at two tiny M&M-shaped dots. The doctor pointed and said, "It’s twins. You’re three months along and they’re developing well."
Twins. I tilted my head to look at Ethan. He was staring at the screen with fierce concentration: long, dense lashes shadowing his eyes, his mouth set tight, jaw clenched. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
We drove home in silence. I looked at the charm hanging from his rearview — a tacky little knotted good-luck charm. I hadn’t realized he still kept it all these years; I’d made it for him in our junior year.
Back then everyone on campus made scarves and bracelets for boyfriends. In our dorm of six, everyone had a boyfriend except me. I was moping about and when he asked why and I told him, he snorted and said, "Why don’t you just knit one for me?"
I rolled my eyes. "If I knit it you’ll never wear it. Why waste my time?"
He’d never worn a scarf.
He said, helpless, "I don’t get girls — even this you have to compete over."
In the end I made him a small knotted good-luck charm because it was the easiest. When I handed it to him I begged him to wear it for at least two weeks so it wouldn’t be wasted. He looked at it and said, “Where do you expect me to put this?”
Then he clicked his tongue. “You seriously thought something this ugly would make a good gift?”
He ended up hanging it in his car. After graduation, I went with him to choose a new one. Once he’d picked it out, he moved the charm over. “It’s been there so long I’m attached to it,” he said with a laugh. “Somehow, this ugly little thing has grown on me.”
I laughed then. Remembering it made me wistful. The situation we were in now just made my head hurt.
The car stopped outside my apartment building, but neither of us moved. The news had clearly shaken him. He was one of life’s golden boys… well, the younger brother of one. He needed to have everything planned and under control. This was no easy decision.
He gripped the steering wheel for a long time and sighed. "What do you plan to do?"
Hearing him say it in that tone felt like being in one of his weekly meetings where he’d point at a strategy and ask, “So you hand this in — do you think it’s feasible?”
He was exasperating. He always seemed to have an idea but felt the need to question you. If your answer matched his, he wouldn’t praise you; if not, he’d look at you like you were hopeless and snap, "What do I pay you for? To be a mascot?"
Had there ever been a mascot as miserable as me?
I felt like a student called on to answer a question she hadn’t prepared for. I had no idea what the right answer was. “I’ve booked an abortion for next week,” I said quietly.
I watched his fingers. His index tapped the steering wheel with a steady rhythm—I could tell his mind was racing. After who knew how long, he sighed and said, "You go up first."
A week later, he came to the hospital with me. He’d arranged for me to go to a different one. We sat opposite each other in silence until a nurse called me. Just as I was about to go in, he caught my arm.
He sounded like he’d made up his mind. "Are you willing to give birth to them?"
I stared at him, mouth open. He went through it calmly, point by point. "You’re not planning to marry. I don’t plan to marry, at least not for now."
"We can raise them together without getting married. I’ll provide the best protection for them—and for you."
Hearing those few sentences come out of his mouth was shocking. I knew what a promise from him meant. This was a man who always acted on his own terms—standing in front of me now, eyes lowered, actually soliciting my opinion. "Of course, you’re the one who decides. I’m not forcing you."
I quickly changed out of the hospital gown and tugged him toward the exit. “Fine! Don’t worry, Ethan. I don’t mind you keeping a child without keeping me. We can take one twin each. Everybody’s happy. I’m not after your money. If necessary, I promise the one you raise won’t even know I’m their mother. Deal!”
I’d agreed so quickly and cheerfully that he asked from behind me, half under his breath, “Why does this feel a little off?”
Too late to worry about that. I pretended not to hear.
I’d bet plenty of independent, financially secure women had wondered how to skip the husband and marriage and still have an adorable child. Ethan was smart and blessed with good genes. Our children ought to turn out wonderfully. The arrangement suited me just fine.
I hadn’t realized Ethan still remembered I didn’t plan to marry. That was from back in senior year, when my boyfriend of two months cheated on me and swindled away my scholarship—I lost both love and money.
Ethan had been in a bad place then too. He was dating the English Department’s campus beauty—I’d known him for years, and she was probably the only woman who truly made him fall.
She was classically pretty, refined, soft-spoken, always in linen dresses—like she’d stepped out of a river-town painting. He’d thought even holding her hand might be too forward.
Young crushes are passionate and genuine. Back then he wasn’t the sharp-tongued, picky, arrogant man he grew into. Right after graduation he dragged that campus beauty to meet his eldest brother.
Jackson Carter was ruthless. He didn’t say much at the time, but two days after the meeting he sent Ethan a package: photos of that girl, heavy makeup, dancing at a club with various men—and a long-term "kept" contract she’d supposedly signed with someone else.
Jackson’s first lesson for Ethan: find out who you’re dealing with before you make a fool of yourself.
Their wealthy playboy friends used that story to mock Ethan. In public he acted unconcerned, but only I ever saw the way he looked after seeing the photos—eyes red, clutching a beer can on the field as he asked me, "How could this happen?"
Pregnant by the Billionaire, Bound by Contract
How could that sweet, polite girl have spent three years as another man’s mistress and danced against other men in tiny dresses at clubs? Appearances could be deceiving.
I’d also been conned by a glasses-wearing artsy guy, so who was I to judge?
We shared our heartbreak. On the field we split a case of beer and clinked bottles, and I swore loudly, "I’ll never trust men again! Love, go to hell! I’m going to be a rich single woman."
Hurt by betrayal, we took different paths. I became a busy workaholic with money but no time—constantly one step from burnout. He became a cold, ruthless, wildly desired CEO, inundated with attention from beautiful women.
After years of cleaning up his romantic scandals, I had to admit he’d found a much more enjoyable way to cope than I had. But out of all the women who came and went, none was anything like that girl from college. Perhaps she’d really hurt him.
Whatever—past is past. Not the time to reminisce.
After we signed the contract, we entered full-on professional partnership mode—partnering to have children.
The day I took leave from the company, the whole department clung to me, crying about how they’d miss me. They fretted—who could handle Ethan’s nitpicking and temper in my absence? Then they tried to pry: what did I do to get him to approve such a long leave? They wanted tips.
I carried a file and answered solemnly, "Seduction."
They scoffed, disgusted. Even if I’d used seduction, they’d call it me taking advantage of Ethan.
It’s strange—Ethan’s had rumors with many women, but with me there’s never been a single love scandal. Sometimes I’d ask colleagues, just curious, and they’d never look up, answering with a tone that felt insulting: "Stop joking, Hannah."
Why? From Ethan’s early days as operations director to his takeover of P.R., who’d stood by him through everything? Who’d stayed up all night helping him finish proposals? Who’d kept the board’s ruthless old guard at bay? Me. Always me.
Even Ethan would sometimes say, “Hannah, you really are my best bro.”
Fine. Best bro. I just wished he’d take better care of his best bro. For a start, he could stop calling me at three in the morning to unclog a drain full of some woman’s hair.
Our friendship had started in such a strange way. He’d come to think of me as a sister-in-arms. As for how I thought of him… Never mind. Our comradeship was perfectly pure and could withstand any official inspection. Obviously.
I was chubby in high school. In our sophomore year, I joined Ethan’s science-stream class, where the seating was assigned by grades. We ended up sharing a desk, with me on the aisle side. Every time he wanted to get out, he’d say impatiently, “Hey, Chunky. Move over.”
It hurt, but I was too timid to complain—Ethan was the school tyrant: top grades, good-looking, privileged and loud about it. He was the center of attention.
His "Chunky" might not have been meant cruelly, but others used it to pile on cruelty, and I became that insecure kid who secretly cursed Ethan every day.
During a gym test, we took turns holding down our desk partners’ legs for sit-ups. Ethan finished his easily, then it was my turn. After three, I was gasping and wriggling on the floor like a caterpillar pinned by its tail. Ethan began to frown. Boys who’d already finished laughed at me. One called out, “Is she a pig?”
My face burned and I started to cry. I still remember through blurred tears—Ethan paused, then stood up and demanded, "Who’s laughing?"
The laughter died down. He came back, pressed my legs again, a little annoyed: "Why are you crying? Do your sit-ups."
He wasn’t pressing my legs down properly. While the teacher wasn’t looking, I bent my knees and managed a few quick sit-ups. Ethan counted, “Three, seven, eight, twelve, fourteen, eighteen, twenty-three, thirty. Good. You passed.”
In that moment I thought he really was a good person. I vowed not to secretly hate him anymore.
We grew close in senior year. Once, he skipped class just as our physics teacher handed out a practice test. He still wasn’t back when it was due, so after a long internal debate I filled in his paper and handed it in. That happened to be the day the teacher decided to call the parents of anyone who hadn’t done it. I leaned toward Ethan afterward. “Don’t worry. I did yours and handed it in.”
He wasn’t afraid of much except his brother, Jackson. He blinked, then bumped my shoulder and said, "Thanks, Chunky."
I corrected him sternly, "My name is Hannah Parks."
He just laughed harder and said, "Okay, thanks, Flower."
Flower? Well, at least that was better than Chunky. I let the new nickname go. Somehow, we became friends.
In our final semester, I asked where he wanted to go to college. He said without shame, "The best, of course." Then he pinched my chubby cheek and said, "Flower, work hard so we can go to the same university and you can help me with my homework."
The prospect sounded miserable. I didn’t want to go to the same university just to keep doing his homework. Besides, someone who skipped class that often couldn’t possibly get into the best school. I threw myself into studying. By the time the entrance exams were over, I’d lost nearly thirty-nine pounds. After our results came out, he messaged to ask which university I’d gotten into. As soon as I told him, he called. “Nice work, Flower. You can keep doing my homework!”
My heart sank.
Ethan always said it was comfortable being around me—probably because I didn’t put on airs. Other girls around him were constantly image-conscious; only I could eat a whole plate of chicken feet and pig’s trotters in front of him. No other girl would be so brazen, and he often sighed, "It’s still most comfortable with you."
When you didn’t have to pretend, you could relax. And being together was easy.
We always joked that we were brothers—well, he considered me a brother. Nobody ever expected I’d one day be giving him children. But here we are.
If someone had told us this a year earlier, Ethan and I probably would have had him committed.
It was just too bizarre.
At first, neither of us could really get into the whole “role.” After I took leave to stay home and nurture the pregnancy, things felt strangely unreal—I had none of the usual pregnancy symptoms.
I had no experience; I didn’t know what pregnancy normally felt like. The twins I was carrying at three months stayed quietly tucked inside me. Aside from a slightly bigger waist that looked like weight gain, I felt nothing like a pregnant woman.
Being so normal made Ethan and me forget I was even pregnant from time to time.
One evening he came by after work and flopped onto the living room couch like he owned the place, bossing me around: “Why haven’t you washed any fruit? Hurry up and wash it. I’m starving. Make me ribs.”
Fine. I washed the fruit and started on the ribs. Halfway through, the kitchen light suddenly went out—old apartments and their outdated fixtures. I’d wanted to renovate, but work had kept me from finding the time.
I opened the drawer, found a bulb, climbed onto a chair to change it. Ethan must have smelled the ribs and followed the scent into the kitchen. I was up on the chair, twisting the bulb, when a shadow startled me and my leg shook. I almost fell, and he lunged forward to catch me. A sharp pain jabbed my belly. I stared at my stomach, then at Ethan’s terrified eyes.
I pulled myself together and said calmly, “Oh right, I’m pregnant.”
He was calm, too, and echoed, “Right, I remembered too.”
We swapped places. I stood by the kitchen doorway and watched him roll up his white shirt sleeves to change the bulb. Ha—Ethan, who’d gotten a perfect score in physics, couldn’t change a lightbulb. He fiddled for ages and still couldn’t get it to work. Embarrassed, he looked at me and tried to save face: “Why don’t you come over to my place? This dump of a place is unsafe.”
His apartment had a regular housekeeper and a comfortable, roomy layout. I smiled and declined prettily. “That wouldn’t be good—what if you bring home a date? It’d look bad.”
He scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose, finally losing his patience but saying stubbornly, “I won’t.”
“All right then.”
I cheerfully agreed and obediently started packing.
“Wait—” He called after me, pointing to the pot of ribs simmering on the stove. “Take this with you.”
He sighed. “Those idiots at the office—I haven’t eaten all day.”
So I carried the ribs and he grabbed my suitcase. That’s how I moved into his spacious luxury apartment and began our “cohabitation.”
It wasn’t until month five that I finally felt genuinely pregnant—the belly grew big, and my appetite went wild. I became indiscriminate: sweet, sour, bitter, spicy—if it tasted good, I wanted it. My mouth never stopped moving. Sometimes Ethan would watch me worriedly, like he was eyeing a pig led to slaughter.
My sleep schedule flipped. Nights I was wide awake and full of energy; days I was groggy and listless.
The babies kicked for the first time at three in the morning. They were mischievous—little jabs at first I didn’t notice, then stronger. I leapt out of bed, raced to Ethan’s room, and swung his door open.
Since we’d started living together, he left his door unlocked at night because he was worried something might happen to me. I ran to his bedside in the dark, hit the lamp, and shook his shoulder, breathless: “Ethan, Ethan, wake up, wake up!”
He’d been working until one in the morning, and he hated being woken. With his hair falling untidily over his forehead, he glared at me and spoke through clenched teeth. “You’d better have a good reason.”
I ignored him and placed his hand on my stomach, excited and curious. “Do you feel that?”
The babies cooperated. The moment his hand touched, they kicked hard. I looked at Ethan, and his expression was…odd—silly, almost. He took a long beat to process it. Then we caught each other’s eyes and started laughing stupidly. But the laugh slowed into awkwardness.
The lamplight tinted the room a warm dusky yellow, painting a small, intimate pool of light. He kept his hand on my belly; we were close. The amusement in his eyes hadn’t fully faded—there was a boyish wonder about him.
Strange—he could be so childlike. His breath was faint against me. Suddenly I got nervous, my mouth dry. I stood up, stammered, “You…you go back to sleep. I’ll go out.”
He sounded a little flustered too, nodding under the blankets: “Okay…okay…”
It was mortifying. I buried myself in the covers, touched my belly, and whispered to the babies inside, “Be good, okay?”
Inexperienced as I was, as the months passed I realized my attachment to Ethan was deepening.
I kept thinking about him without meaning to. When I’d been working, we were together almost every waking minute. Now I spent my days alone at home, and I couldn’t get used to it.
Not a good sign.
I ran into Claire Reynolds again at the hospital. Claire—she was the English Department’s famous beauty, the woman who once shattered Ethan’s heart.
I was sitting on a bench downstairs at the hospital, waiting for Ethan to bring back my prenatal test results. Then I looked up and saw him coming down the long escalator with Claire beside him.
If you could understand how I felt—Claire was flawless. Years hadn’t dimmed her allure: black, glossy waves, a curve-hugging black dress that showed off her figure. They walked side by side and looked like they belonged together; everyone around them seemed to pale in comparison.
I stared, forgetting to compose myself until Ethan’s eyes swept the lobby and finally landed on me. He smiled faintly and silently mouthed something that looked like “Good girl.”
Claire followed him over. Her catlike, flirtatious gaze slid from my face to my protruding belly; she sneered and then smiled at Ethan in that graceful way: “I won’t keep you two. We’ll be in touch.”
My heart thudded; I didn’t look at Ethan’s face.
Later, back home, Ethan went over the doctor’s notes and pregnancy precautions in careful detail. My mind was elsewhere. I didn’t ask him the one question I wanted to:
Why did you see Claire again? Do you still like her?
That night I dreamed I was back in junior year. I clutched the roughly knotted good-luck charm I’d woven and waited nervously for Ethan to come out. The streetlights below the men’s dorm came on one by one, and I saw him walking back hand in hand with Claire.
She leaned on him like a lovesick girl. They were a perfect match, and anyone would say so.
My confession died before I could say a word.
Yes, I loved Ethan. In high school, I’d studied as hard as I could to get into the university he wanted. And I’d wanted to feel worthy of standing beside him. Salads, long runs, jump rope, a hula hoop: I’d worked until I lost nearly thirty-nine pounds.
I’d loved him so much. That was the real reason I wanted to have his children.
He could never have guessed that while he viewed me like a brother, that “brother” had been secretly in love with him for years.
But I couldn’t tell him. I missed the chance in junior year; now it was impossible.
Nightmares left me sleepless. For weeks I was exhausted and listless, so I started calling coworkers to pass the time.
As soon as they picked up, they’d vent about Ethan’s bossy, moody behavior. After the complaints, the tone shifted conspiratorial. “Hannah,” they whispered, “we think Mr. Carter is seeing someone.”
Oh? My ears pricked. Could it be Claire?
Mia swore she knew gossip: “Last week the boss was working late. Hope brought him dinner and saw him on a video call.”
“The woman on the other end asked when he’d be home. Then she said she wanted food from West Garden and told him to bring some back.”
“And that’s not even the best part. When Hope walked in, he got all awkward and ended the call! There’s definitely something going on. Who is this woman who can order the boss around?”
I hung up, my conscience prickling. Maybe—possibly—this siren was me.
After six months my cravings turned picky. From eating everything, I swung to refusing almost everything. The high-priced pregnancy nutritionist Ethan had hired made meals I couldn’t even stand to smell. I’d never had morning sickness in the first half of pregnancy, but after month six I started vomiting nonstop.
The nutritionist, looking cornered, said, “You have to force yourself to eat—for the baby.”
I gagged while stuffing food in. Ethan looked at the expensive nutritionist with an even face and asked calmly, “Did I hire you to force a pregnant woman to eat?”
The nutritionist paled. I tugged Ethan’s sleeve to say it was my problem.
One night Ethan was working late and I couldn’t sleep. Out of nowhere I craved West Garden’s food.
West Garden was an exclusive restaurant known among Ashton City’s wealthy for tiny portions, outrageous prices, and nearly impossible reservations. I’d once booked a birthday dinner there for a woman Ethan was dating. Before her birthday arrived, she’d received her breakup check instead. Ethan was abroad, so, in the name of not wasting anything, he sent me to eat the whole meal alone.
True to its reputation, the portions left me strangely unsatisfied. When the bill came, it made me gasp—but at least I hadn’t paid for it.
At the time it didn't taste that special, but that night the flavor suddenly hit me and made my mouth water, so I called Ethan.
He was home within an hour, carrying takeout from West Garden. The place supposedly required reservations three months ahead and never offered takeout. He sat watching me eat, looking worried. “Is that enough?
“If it isn’t, I’ll get their head chef to cook here for the next few months.”
But I got sick of it pretty quickly.
Maybe it was because I was pregnant, but Ethan's tolerance for me had reached an unprecedented level.
One night at four a.m., I suddenly craved the fried rice cakes sold outside our college gate—crispy on the outside, tender inside, coated in a special chili sauce. Back in college, every time Ethan skipped class to go play games, he'd always come back with two fried rice cakes for me. That was about the only kind thing he ever did.
It had been years since graduation. Ethan had just flown in on back-to-back flights and was jet-lagged. Our cook stayed up all night trying to recreate the taste, but nothing matched my memory. Pregnancy had left me sensitive and easily upset. I didn’t know why, but I started crying as I ate.
Ethan must have heard the sound—since my belly showed, he'd been sleeping lightly; any noise outside would wake him.
When he came out, I was sitting in front of five or six plates of different rice cake styles, tears on my face. He tilted his head and asked the nutritionist standing by, "What's wrong with her?"
I looked up at him pitifully. "Ethan, do you remember the fried rice cakes by our college gate?"
He sighed, resigned but indulgent as he picked up his coat from the chair back. "Alright, let's go. I'll take you. Driving there now will time it just right for dinner."
The driver took us several hundred kilometers while Ethan caught up on sleep in the car. We reached the campus at dusk, just as the vendor was setting up. Watching the rice cakes tumble in the oil made my mouth water. I ate one from a skewer and held three more in my other hand, then turned happily to look for Ethan. The car door was open. He rested his head against it, eyes closed, dark circles beneath them. He looked exhausted, probably half asleep.
The college gate was alive with students, all the bright energy of youth. The evening light softened everything, falling over him and lighting his handsome face with a strange, hazy tenderness.
Boom—boom—boom—I could hear my own heartbeat. I froze in place.
Ethan opened his eyes. His dark irises reflected the bustle outside, but he stared straight at me alone, a smile at his lips as he teased, “What, you don’t want to leave? Want me to bring the vendor home with us?”
I looked away awkwardly and mumbled, "It's not that I want it—it's your son who wants it."
“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed without the slightest objection, then laughed. “It’s just rice cake. Why are you crying because you can’t have it?”
I looked away and took another bite. Crisp outside, soft within, exactly as I remembered. Somehow, that familiar taste held all the small, secret happiness I wanted with him, the feelings I could only keep hidden in my heart.
He asked, "What's wrong? Why do you look like you've got heavy thoughts over a rice cake? What are you thinking about?"
I glanced at him and said nothing.
Some things simply couldn’t be said. They had to stay unspoken.
After we got home he splashed cold water on his face and went back to work. I stared at him across his monitor, dazed. I couldn't figure out why he was so good to me.
Maybe it was because I was pregnant, but even back in high school and through everything, I was an exception in his life. Did he even know that?
How did he really see me—was I truly just a friend to him?
He sat there, focused on his screen, probably never guessing what I was thinking.
I felt suddenly bereft. He looked up sharply and I quickly turned my eyes away as he directed me, "Hannah, check the verification code."
I picked up his phone, but before I found the code, a text from an unsaved number caught my eye. Ethan never kept secrets from me. On impulse, I opened it. “Ethan, it’s Claire Reynolds. Do you remember me?”
Ethan’s reply was as concise and cold-blooded as any capitalist could wish: “I remember. Looking for a new client?”
He’d added a businessman’s contact: “135****7986 (rich, gullible, no kinks).”
I stared at the phone, stunned, and then burst out laughing on the couch. He scolded me in confusion: "You really have pregnancy brain—why are you laughing? The verification code! CODE!!"
Still shaking with laughter, I found the verification code. “Careful,” he warned. “You’ll laugh until your stomach hurts again. Take it easy.”
Something that had been twisted up inside me for so long just vanished. I looked at him sincerely. "Ethan, you're a good person. The rice cakes were amazing."
He scanned me up and down, wary, like he suspected I was trying to sweet-talk him into doing something, so he ignored me.
Hmph. Men.
I met Jackson Carter when I was eight months pregnant. My belly was huge; every movement made my bones ache. Jackson came in while Ethan and I were fighting over the remote—he wanted me to watch a prenatal-stimulation program; I insisted on watching “Legend.”
It was the first fantasy-drama starring the acclaimed actor and his wife, Tessa Quinn. It blew up on forum boards. Tessa had once been the global face of P.R., but she didn't renew after she married.
I remembered when I first watched the show, Ethan's expression was impossible to read. I asked him if he had liked Tessa back then, which is why he kept her as a long-term endorser.
He rolled his eyes and told me, "When they were casting this, the female lead wasn't confirmed. Once she was, many investors pulled out. They almost couldn't get it started; the shortfall was big. The person who covered the rest was my older brother."
His resentment sharpened every word. “As if paying wasn’t enough, he funneled it through another company. He didn’t dare let her know it was him.”
He left it at that, but I put the pieces together: Tessa was very pretty and often dismissed as a pretty face, but in this show her acting was no joke—probably thanks to being married to an acting titan. I had met her once during publicity; she was gentle and easygoing. I hadn't known she and Ethan's brother Jackson had a past. It made me sigh.
That was why Ethan forbade me from watching "Legend." The Carter men could be petty.
Jackson’s secretary, Zeus, arrived first. I’d met her a few times through work. When I’d first become Ethan’s assistant and struggled to get on top of things, Jackson had sent her to show me the ropes for a couple of days. Once we got to know each other, we even complained about him together.
Jackson was terrifying—not in looks; the Carter family had flawless appearances—but in presence. He had a chilling intensity, probably from how ruthless he'd had to be.
After the elder Carters died in an accident, greedy relatives seized much of the family’s fortune. Jackson had only just started high school. He brought up his little brother while quietly working to regain P.R.’s shares. Somehow, he got them back under his control and brought the old board members firmly into line.
Nor was he content to stop at the family business. He moved into the U.S. financial markets and made a name for himself there too.
When Ethan graduated, Jackson handed the family enterprise to him, only checking in occasionally. Ethan feared his older brother more than anything.
When Ethan joined P.R. as operations director after graduation, the old guard refused to take him seriously. He acted perfectly composed, but I knew the pressure he was under. Whenever he visited me at university for dinner, he’d get drunk and ask, “When will I be like my brother?”
Someone who could make people tremble with a single glance, without even saying a word. Ethan had that power now, but I suspected Jackson would always be the standard he measured himself against.
By now Jackson had moved mostly behind the scenes and stopped intervening in every little thing. So when Zeus stood properly at the door, Ethan and I exchanged a look—we both knew we were in trouble.
There was no hiding my belly. Zeus glanced from my face to my stomach and gave me a sympathetic look. “Ethan, your brother will be here shortly.”
Jackson was sitting on the sofa; I ended up across from him. Pregnancy perks at work—Ethan didn't get so lucky. He stood beside me, taking the blame like a good soldier. "Big brother, it was my decision."
Jackson didn’t answer him. Looking straight at me, he didn’t waste words. “What do you plan to do after the babies are born?”
I glanced at Ethan. He looked at me. We signaled each other—there was no way around it. I stammered, "We—we plan to co-parent without getting married."
Jackson raised an eyelid, expressionless. “That’s not an option. The Carter family’s children cannot be raised in such a distorted environment. If you’re not going to marry, then when the babies are born—”
He looked at me. “I expect you to leave and never see the children again. There will be no place for you at P.R., either. I hope you understand.”
Ethan stepped forward. "Big brother—"
But Jackson was immovable.
He rose to leave, his expression unyielding. Then his gaze caught on the enormous TV behind him. Legend was paused on an argument between the leads. Tessa’s character looked up at the hero, tears shining in her eyes. It was heartbreaking.
Oh, no, I thought.
Jackson stared. Only for a moment; he quickly hid his reaction. But I’d seen the brief flash of longing in his eyes.
Funny—someone who can get anything he wants actually looks wistful sometimes.
I should have listened to Ethan and watched the prenatal program.
After Jackson left, Ethan and I stared at each other, both seeing the same despair in the other's eyes. No one expected things to spiral like this. I scolded him through my teeth, half angry, half helpless: "What good are you? You can't even hide this from your brother."
His face darkened. He wanted to snap back, but when his gaze flicked to my belly he swallowed it. The world is vast, but pregnant women rule—if this were before, even with all my bravado, I wouldn't dare to argue with him like that.
I sighed again. Ethan, worried about my mood, tried to soothe me: “Don’t be afraid. We’ll see after the babies are born. I’m here.”
As if that would help. One glare from Jackson could scare me straight into a difficult labor.
Luckily, the delivery went smoothly.
I checked into the hospital a month before my due date, and Ethan worked from my maternity room every day. When labor started, I was eating a peach. Waves of pain rolled through my stomach. I nudged him with my foot. “I’m going into labor.”
His face drained. He jumped up and paced around my bed like a headless chicken. "Labor? What? But it's not the due date yet!"
He fumbled for the nurse call button, utterly flustered—if you didn't know better, you'd think he was the one about to give birth. Totally not composed.
Me? I still finished my peach before they wheeled me in.
We tried for a vaginal delivery, but I ended up needing an emergency C-section. For a while, things were frightening. In the end, though, both babies arrived safely. Before I drifted off, the doctor smiled. “Congratulations, Mrs. Carter. A boy and a girl, both healthy.”
My mouth twitched—I'd barely had time to correct him that I wasn't "Mrs. Carter" before the meds took over and I fell asleep.
When I woke, Ethan was bent over by my bedside. Two swaddled bundles lay beside me—wrinkled, ugly little creatures. I gasped, weak and shocked: "How can they be this ugly?"
Ethan didn't see it that way. For the first time I saw him smile so wide his eyes disappeared—tender and a little terrifying. He looked at the bundles with pure adoration. "How could they be? They're perfect."
Then he turned to me; his eyes glittered wetly, like he might cry. Hey, I haven't cried—what are you crying for? Are you forgetting your persona?
I watched him warily. He took my hand in both of his, looking more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. It was as if he’d wrestled with the decision for a long time and finally made up his mind. “Hannah Parks, let’s get married.”
What? You can't just do this!!!
The sunset poured through the window in warm orange light, making the room glow. Weakly I asked, "Is this a proposal?"
He nodded, brought my hand to his lips, and asked, "Will you say yes?"
I wanted to ask whether he loved me, whether he liked me—how could I marry someone who didn't? But he kissed the back of my hand so gently and promised solemnly, "Hannah, I'll take care of you and the kids for the rest of my life. Let's try to build a family together, okay?"
I wasn’t sure if this was a spur-of-the-moment thing—maybe he was swept up by the babies and got emotional. Still, he held my hand and looked at me as though I were the only person in his world.
In that moment I gave in. I thought, fine. We'll take it slow. A lifetime is long; we can learn to love each other in marriage. Or more honestly—I'll give him the chance to fall in love with me.
Not that hard, right?
You only get one shot—seize the joy, be bold. Maybe the ending will be different.
I nodded and looked at him, suddenly back in high school again.
That gym class. The same beautiful sunset. I was struggling through sit-ups, and with the light behind him, he was counting for me: “Three… seven… eight… twelve… fourteen… eighteen… twenty-three… thirty. Good. You passed.”
All the hidden feelings I'd kept inside for so long had finally come true, in a way I'd never expected.
"Mrs. Carter"—I kind of liked the sound of that new name.
(End)
