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.
I brooded for three days, then decided to resign — no, to break up. Ah, forget that — to tender 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?"
It was so unfair. I really had no reason to be blamed.
Working for him was no picnic. Ethan was a perfectionist and hard to please; every dollar I earned came from blood and sweat.
Besides the regular company tasks — you had to do your assistant duties well while keeping eyes and ears on every company movement, and master the art of dealing seamlessly with cantankerous board members — there was his severe OCD and his intense need for privacy. He hated outsiders in his personal sphere, which meant I had to manage every aspect of his private life too.
First were his "companions." He bored of people quickly and expected me to handle the breakups.
Almost every month I sat in a coffee shop while a woman sobbed across from me, telling me how she loved Ethan, or bawled and demanded explanations. Occasionally one would get violent — I’d calmly wipe their face with a napkin, hand over a check, and say, "If you feel better destroying it, you can tear up this check."
Then I’d warn her, "Of course, PR 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.
Don’t dwell — thinking about it makes me bitter.
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, as 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’d just come from gym class with a basketball in hand. He didn’t have any of that "boys shouldn’t hit girls" chivalry; he flung the ball past that senior and it thudded into the empty lot. He pointed at me, trembling, and told the senior, "I’ve got her. Got it?"
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 beaten rare, and I couldn’t help feeling elated.
Turns out the old saying "mother’s status rises with child" kind of felt like this: after years of being put down, I finally had some leverage.
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 safety knot. I hadn’t realized he still kept it all these years; I had knotted 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 safety knot 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 and teased, "You actually gave something this ugly?"
Later he used it as a car charm. When we graduated and he bought a new car, he moved that charm to the new vehicle and joked, "It’s been on so long it’s grown on me. I guess I’ve tolerantly learned to like this ugly thing."
I laughed then. Memories made me wistful; the present made me ache.
Finally the car pulled up below my apartment. Neither of us moved. You could tell this news had knocked him off balance. He was the golden son — everything had to be under his control to feel secure. Deciding something like this wasn’t easy.
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 board 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?"
A mascot — how awful.
I felt like a student being cold-called in class for an answer I hadn’t memorized. Quietly, I said, "I’ve scheduled the OB-GYN procedure next week."
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 accompanied me to the hospital. He’d arranged a different hospital; Ethan sat with me in the ward and we sat silent, facing each other, neither of us speaking. After a long while a nurse came to call someone, and just as I was about to step into the room, he suddenly grabbed 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 took off the hospital gown and tugged him toward the exit. "Fine. Don’t worry, Ethan. I don’t mind being a mother while you remain unmarried. When the kids are born, they’ll have both of us. Happy for everyone—no drama. I’m not after your money. If necessary, I promise the child you raise will never know I’m their mother. Agreed."
I agreed too easily, too cheerfully. From behind me he asked, breathless, "Why do I have the feeling something’s off?"
Too late to worry about that. I pretended not to hear.
Most independent, well-off modern women have imagined skipping marriage and husbands and just having a lovely child. Ethan has good genes and high intelligence—our kids would be top quality. I was fine with that.
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. Even holding her hand felt like something bold.
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 to Ethan: don’t be stupid before you check the facts.
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
I wanted to ask the same. How could the gentle, polite girl end up dancing in a strap dress at a bar with different men, kept for three years? People aren’t what they seem.
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.
Helping him mop up his scandalous rumors over the years taught me my perspective was too small. But in all that time, no one ever matched that campus beauty’s type. Maybe she truly 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? Ethan grew from P.R. intern to head of P.R.—who stood by him through wind and rain? Who stayed overnight helping prep plans? Who shielded him from the board’s predatory old men? It was me. It’s always been me.
Ethan would sometimes remark, "Hannah, you really are my good brother."
Fine—good brother. I just wished he’d be gentler when he relied on his "good brother." Like, stop calling me at 3 a.m. to come over and unclog his sink full of women’s hair.
Our friendship started oddly. Over the years he treated me like one of his own; I treated him like…well, never mind.
Back in high school I was chubby. In sophomore year I got placed in Ethan’s class by rank, and we were desk partners. I sat outside of him. Whenever he left his chair he’d impatiently say, "Hey, Chunky, scoot."
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.
One day in gym we were doing sit-ups. Ethan finished easily and pressed my legs. I fumbled three and was wheezing on the floor like a flopping cabbage, while boys nearby laughed. One called out, "Is she a pig? Hahaha."
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 applying pressure—he wanted me to do them. While the coach was distracted I did a few fast reps as he counted, "3, 7, 8, 12, 14, 18, 23, 30. Good. Pass."
In that moment I thought he really was a good person. I vowed not to secretly hate him anymore.
We got close in senior year. Once he skipped class during a physics quiz. He came back too late, and I finished and handed in his paper for him. When he realized a teacher was calling parents of those who didn’t hand in work, I quietly told him, "Don’t worry. I did it for you."
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."
Whatever. I didn’t bother arguing. 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."
That future looked bleak to me—I didn’t want to attend the same school or do his homework. I studied hard and lost thirty-five pounds. After our results came out he texted and called: "Great, Flower—now keep helping me with 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."
Being relaxed makes it easy to be comfortable.
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 just hung quietly in my belly. 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—valedictorian Ethan 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 luxurious duplex 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 up handling company business until one in the morning and was cranky. Messy hair drooped over his forehead. He glared at me through teeth clenched with morning ire: “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 started thinking about him all the time. Work used to keep us together almost constantly; when you’re intertwined twenty-four hours a day, absence felt natural. But now being home alone every day felt oddly uncomfortable.
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 waiting on a bench outside the obstetrics clinic for Ethan’s test results when I glanced up and saw him descending the long hospital 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: “We won’t bother you. 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 rough safety knot charm I’d woven and waited nervously for Ethan to come out. The dorm lights blinked on along the path, 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 unspoken confession died right there in my stomach.
Yes, I liked Ethan. In high school I’d starved and trained to get into the university he wanted; I wanted to match him a little. I ate salads, ran, jumped rope, hula-hooped—lost thirty-five pounds—all to be worthy.
I liked him that much. I only wanted to give him 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.”
“That’s not the point. The other woman asked when he’d be back and said she wanted a takeout order from West Garden private kitchen. She asked him to pick it up.”
“The real point is Hope walked in and he awkwardly cut the video. My god—he’s in deep. Who’s this siren boss listens to like that?”
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 is a private kitchen known across Ashton City for tiny portions, high prices, and impossible reservations. When Ethan had been courting a date years ago, I’d helped him reserve an entire West Garden dinner. The date ended before the birthday, and Ethan was abroad. Following his “never waste” principle, he sent me to finish the 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 back within an hour, carrying a private kitchen order from West Garden that you can't get without a three-month advance reservation, and sat there watching me eat. He kept worrying, "Is this enough?
If not, I'll have their head chef come over and cook for you for 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. Pregnant women are sensitive and fragile for no reason I could explain; I started crying while eating.
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."
So the driver took us hundreds of miles while he tried to recover his sleep. We arrived by dusk and the street vendor was just setting up. Watching the rice cakes tumble in the oil, my mouth watered. I ate one in each hand and merrily turned to find Ethan. The car door was open; he was leaning on the seat by the door with his head against it, eyes closed, dark circles beneath them, exhausted—probably dozing.
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 invite the vendor into the car?"
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 principle, then laughed. "It's just rice cake. Why are you crying because you can't have it?"
I ignored him and, in a daze, took another bite. It was the taste from my memory—crispy, soft, fragrant. Eating it felt like indulging in some small, shameful, secret slice of ordinary life I couldn't show to the world.
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.
Buddha says: unspeakable, unspeakable.
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 he truly just a friend?
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."
Fine. I picked up his phone to check the code, but before the code I noticed a text from an unknown number not in his contacts. Ethan never kept secrets from me, so on a silly impulse I opened it. The message was short: From that stranger: "Ethan, this is Claire Reynolds. Do you remember me?"
Ethan's reply was terse and perfectly fitting for his cold, capitalist style: "I remember. Do you need me to introduce business?"
Claire: 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!!"
I shook with laughter and flipped through to the code. He warned me, "Be careful; stop laughing or you'll call it stomach pain again. Take care of yourself."
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 fetal education 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."
He sounded bitter and precise, "He covered it and didn't want it tied to other companies. He didn't want her to know."
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.
That day Jackson's secretary, Zeus, came in first. I had met Zeus a few times on business. When I first became Ethan's assistant, I struggled with a lot of things; Jackson had Zeus mentor me for a couple of days. Later, once we were comfortable, we even complained about Jackson 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 death of the Carter patriarchs, greedy relatives grabbed much of the estate. A young Jackson had pulled up his kid brother Ethan and fought tooth and nail to reclaim P.R.'s shares and put everything under his control. He corralled the board and never loosened his grip.
But he didn't stop at P.R.; he branched out on the U.S. financial exchange 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.
Back then, as Ethan worked his way up from operations director, the company's old guard dismissed him. He kept his face calm, but I knew how much pressure he carried; he'd get drunk after visiting me and ask, "When will I ever be like my brother?"
One look from Jackson could make people quake.
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.
My belly couldn't be hidden. Zeus's gaze flicked from my face to my stomach and he gave me a sympathetic look. "Second Young Master, Mr. Carter will be here soon."
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 child is 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 child is born—"
He looked at me. "I hope you'll leave and never appear before the child. P.R. isn't suitable for you. I hope you understand."
Ethan stepped forward. "Big brother—"
But Jackson was immovable.
As he stood and left with no concession, the large TV screen behind him froze on a scene from "Legend": the leads in a misunderstanding, the heroine played by Tessa looking up at the hero tearfully, her teary eyes heartbreaking to watch.
I felt my world tilt.
Jackson stood there, stunned. It hadn't been long before he masked his emotions, but for a moment I still saw that flash of wistfulness in his eyes.
Funny—someone who can get anything he wants actually looks wistful sometimes.
I should've listened to Ethan about prenatal care.
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 baby's born. I'm here."
"You're here but powerless," Jackson's look warned from afar. One glare from him and I could be terrified into a difficult labor.
Luckily, the delivery went smoothly.
A month before my due date I checked into the hospital. Ethan worked from the delivery room every day. I was calmly eating a peach when suddenly the pain hit in waves. I nudged him: "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.
I started with a natural delivery that turned into an emergency C-section. It was dangerous for a while, but in the end things went well. The doctor who delivered them smiled as I drifted under the anesthesia: "Mrs. Carter, it's a set of fraternal twins. 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?
My guard went up. He took my hand, fragile, like he had been wrestling with a decision for a long time. Finally he spoke, resolute: "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 if the entire world contained only my silhouette.
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 dusk just like this, the sunset beautiful—I'm doing sit-ups and he stands there against the light, counting off for me in a voice so steady: "Three… seven… eight… twelve… fourteen… eighteen… twenty-three… thirty. Okay, 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)
For Jackson Carter's own romantic story, read "The Supporting Actress's Script"
