Ava
The nausea woke me, a rolling, insistent wave that had me stumbling to the bathroom before my eyes were fully open. This wasn't the stale after taste of cheap wine.
This was different. Deeper. It had been happening for a week, this tide of fatigue and sickness that pulled at me every morning.
I sat on the cold tile floor, waiting for the world to right itself. My mind, still fuzzy with sleep, began the calculations.
The missed period, The reckless night four weeks ago, The champagne-drenched blur I'd tried desperately to scrub from my memory.
A cold, clear knowing settled in my stomach, heavier than the nausea.
An hour later, I held the plastic stick in my trembling hand, the digital display cruel and certain in the gray morning light.
"PREGNANT".
The word wasn't a surprise. It was a sentence. My breath left in a rush, and the room tilted. I sank to the floor again, the cold tile seeping through my sweatpants.
The positive test clattered from my hand as I wrapped my arms around my knees, making myself small.
Oh, God. Clara.
The thought of my sister was a knife twist. But it wasn't her face that swam behind my closed eyes. It was his. "Ethan Van Horn". Not as the charismatic billionaire at the party, but as he was in the harsh, secret aftermath.
The memory slammed into me, fresh and brutal.
We were in a dark town car, the partition up. The scent of him, expensive cologne and regret filled the space. He hadn't looked at me since we'd fled the pool house.
"That," he'd said, his voice a low blade of sound, "never happened."
I'd been too stunned, too ashamed to speak.
He finally turned his head. In the passing streetlights, his profile was cut from marble, utterly devoid of the heat that had been there hours before.
"Do you understand me, Ava? No one. Ever. Finds. Out."
"I wouldn't" I'd stammered.
"If you breathe a word," he'd cut in, his eyes finally meeting mine. They were no longer stormy with passion, but frozen, absolute.
"If you so much as hint at it to anyone, especially Clara, I will make sure you regret it. I will ruin the life you think you have. This stays buried. Or you will be doomed"
It wasn't just a threat. It was a promise. He'd said it with the same calm finality he probably used to fire CEOs. Then he'd looked away, dismissing me from his world, from his existence.
Now, sitting alone on the bathroom floor, I heard the echo of his words. No one. Ever. Finds. Out.
But they would. They'd have to. My body would betray us both.
A sob caught in my throat, but I choked it back. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford.
I was carrying a secret that could shatter my sister's life, invite the fury of one of the most powerful men in the city, and disgrace my family.
I was pregnant,
I was ruined,
And the father had promised to destroy me if anyone ever knew.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest, staring at the little plastic stick on the floor. My future, my safety, everything had just narrowed to two lines on a screen and a threat in the dark.
I had to tell someone. And it would start a war
The tears came then, hot and silent, carving paths through the numbness. I didn't cry for the baby, not yet. I cried for the wreckage.
I saw my sister's face not heartbroken, but furious. Clara and I weren't the storybook sisters who shared secrets. She was the sun: bright, ambitious, center of every room. I was the moon, quiet and watching from the edges.
We lived in different worlds under the same roof. What would she think of me now?
And my parents. Their disappointment would be a cold, heavy thing.
I could hear my mother's clipped tone, my father's silent, crushing disapproval. We didn't raise you for this, they would say. You were just the quiet one.
How could I explain that I was just drunk, and lost, and for one moment in the dark, I wanted to feel like I existed? It sounded pathetic, even to me.
The thoughts spun for hours, a cyclone of fear and shame. But the truth was a stone in my gut. It wouldn't dissolve. It had to be dropped.
I found them at the long, polished dining table, the scene of a hundred quiet family meals.
Sunlight streamed in, too cheerful. Clara was scrolling through her phone, disinterested. Mom was reviewing a social calendar. Dad read the financial news. Perfect. Normal.
My mouth was desert-dry. "Mom. Dad. I… I have to say something."
Three pairs of eyes lifted. Clara's were annoyed at the interruption.
"I need to ask for your forgiveness first," I whispered, the words sticking in my throat. "For what I'm about to tell you."
My mother's fork still. "Ava? What is it?"
I clutched the edge of the doorframe, my anchor. "I'm… I'm pregnant."
The silence that followed was absolute, then shattered.
"What?!"
The word exploded from all three of them in unison.
My mother's hand flew to her chest. Clara's phone clattered onto her plate. My father's newspaper crumpled in his grip.
"Pregnant?" My mother's voice was sharp with disbelief. "How? Who is the father?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I felt all their stares,confusion, dawning horror, accusation pinning me to the spot.
My vision blurred with a fresh wave of tears. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
"Ava," my father's voice boomed, not loud, but hard as iron. "Who is the man?"
The room pressed in. There was no escape. I swallowed a sob, my voice a broken thread. "It's… it's Ethan."
A beat of pure, incomprehensible silence.
"Ethan who?" Clara snapped, her brow furrowed in impatience. Then, understanding dawned. Her face paled, then flooded with violent, crimson rage. "Ethan Van Horn? My Ethan?"
She shot up from her chair so fast it screeched against the floor. "You lying bitch!" The word was a venomous hiss. "You little, backstabbing slut! You went after him? You touched him?"
She lunged across the table, fingers curled like claws, pure hatred in her eyes. I flinched, raising my arms uselessly.
"ENOUGH!"
My father's voice cracked through the air like a whip. Clara froze, her chest heaving, her gaze promising murder.
My father didn't look at her. He looked at me, then at my mother.
His expression wasn't one of anger anymore, but of cold, rapid calculation. I saw that moment the businessman in him assessed the scandal, the assets, the damage control.
"Sit down, Clara," he said, his tone leaving no argument. He turned his steel-gray eyes back to me. "You are certain."
It wasn't a question. I nodded, a miserable jerk of my head.
He let out a long, slow breath, placing his crumpled newspaper neatly aside.
"Then there is only one solution to protect both families from disgrace."
He looked at my mother, who gave a tight, grim nod of agreement.
"The Van Horns will be contacted. The wedding will proceed as planned between our families."
His gaze settled on me, final and absolute. "But it will be you, Ava, who marries Ethan Van Horn. Not Clara."
The words landed, sealing my fate.
Clara made a strangled sound of pure outrage. My mother closed her eyes briefly, a sign of surrender to necessity.
I just stood there, the tears drying cold on my cheeks. Th
Chapter 1: Ava
The nausea woke me, a rolling, insistent wave that had me stumbling to the bathroom before my eyes were fully open. This wasn't the stale after taste of cheap wine.
This was different. Deeper. It had been happening for a week, this tide of fatigue and sickness that pulled at me every morning.
I sat on the cold tile floor, waiting for the world to right itself. My mind, still fuzzy with sleep, began the calculations.
The missed period, The reckless night four weeks ago, The champagne-drenched blur I'd tried desperately to scrub from my memory.
A cold, clear knowing settled in my stomach, heavier than the nausea.
An hour later, I held the plastic stick in my trembling hand, the digital display cruel and certain in the gray morning light.
"PREGNANT".
The word wasn't a surprise. It was a sentence. My breath left in a rush, and the room tilted. I sank to the floor again, the cold tile seeping through my sweatpants.
The positive test clattered from my hand as I wrapped my arms around my knees, making myself small.
Oh, God. Clara.
The thought of my sister was a knife twist. But it wasn't her face that swam behind my closed eyes. It was his. "Ethan Van Horn". Not as the charismatic billionaire at the party, but as he was in the harsh, secret aftermath.
The memory slammed into me, fresh and brutal.
We were in a dark town car, the partition up. The scent of him, expensive cologne and regret filled the space. He hadn't looked at me since we'd fled the pool house.
"That," he'd said, his voice a low blade of sound, "never happened."
I'd been too stunned, too ashamed to speak.
He finally turned his head. In the passing streetlights, his profile was cut from marble, utterly devoid of the heat that had been there hours before.
"Do you understand me, Ava? No one. Ever. Finds. Out."
"I wouldn't" I'd stammered.
"If you breathe a word," he'd cut in, his eyes finally meeting mine. They were no longer stormy with passion, but frozen, absolute.
"If you so much as hint at it to anyone, especially Clara, I will make sure you regret it. I will ruin the life you think you have. This stays buried. Or you will be doomed"
It wasn't just a threat. It was a promise. He'd said it with the same calm finality he probably used to fire CEOs. Then he'd looked away, dismissing me from his world, from his existence.
Now, sitting alone on the bathroom floor, I heard the echo of his words. No one. Ever. Finds. Out.
But they would. They'd have to. My body would betray us both.
A sob caught in my throat, but I choked it back. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford.
I was carrying a secret that could shatter my sister's life, invite the fury of one of the most powerful men in the city, and disgrace my family.
I was pregnant,
I was ruined,
And the father had promised to destroy me if anyone ever knew.
I pulled my knees tighter to my chest, staring at the little plastic stick on the floor. My future, my safety, everything had just narrowed to two lines on a screen and a threat in the dark.
I had to tell someone. And it would start a war
The tears came then, hot and silent, carving paths through the numbness. I didn't cry for the baby, not yet. I cried for the wreckage.
I saw my sister's face not heartbroken, but furious. Clara and I weren't the storybook sisters who shared secrets. She was the sun: bright, ambitious, center of every room. I was the moon, quiet and watching from the edges.
We lived in different worlds under the same roof. What would she think of me now?
And my parents. Their disappointment would be a cold, heavy thing.
I could hear my mother's clipped tone, my father's silent, crushing disapproval. We didn't raise you for this, they would say. You were just the quiet one.
How could I explain that I was just drunk, and lost, and for one moment in the dark, I wanted to feel like I existed? It sounded pathetic, even to me.
The thoughts spun for hours, a cyclone of fear and shame. But the truth was a stone in my gut. It wouldn't dissolve. It had to be dropped.
I found them at the long, polished dining table, the scene of a hundred quiet family meals.
Sunlight streamed in, too cheerful. Clara was scrolling through her phone, disinterested. Mom was reviewing a social calendar. Dad read the financial news. Perfect. Normal.
My mouth was desert-dry. "Mom. Dad. I… I have to say something."
Three pairs of eyes lifted. Clara's were annoyed at the interruption.
"I need to ask for your forgiveness first," I whispered, the words sticking in my throat. "For what I'm about to tell you."
My mother's fork still. "Ava? What is it?"
I clutched the edge of the doorframe, my anchor. "I'm… I'm pregnant."
The silence that followed was absolute, then shattered.
"What?!"
The word exploded from all three of them in unison.
My mother's hand flew to her chest. Clara's phone clattered onto her plate. My father's newspaper crumpled in his grip.
"Pregnant?" My mother's voice was sharp with disbelief. "How? Who is the father?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I felt all their stares,confusion, dawning horror, accusation pinning me to the spot.
My vision blurred with a fresh wave of tears. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
"Ava," my father's voice boomed, not loud, but hard as iron. "Who is the man?"
The room pressed in. There was no escape. I swallowed a sob, my voice a broken thread. "It's… it's Ethan."
A beat of pure, incomprehensible silence.
"Ethan who?" Clara snapped, her brow furrowed in impatience. Then, understanding dawned. Her face paled, then flooded with violent, crimson rage. "Ethan Van Horn? My Ethan?"
She shot up from her chair so fast it screeched against the floor. "You lying bitch!" The word was a venomous hiss. "You little, backstabbing slut! You went after him? You touched him?"
She lunged across the table, fingers curled like claws, pure hatred in her eyes. I flinched, raising my arms uselessly.
"ENOUGH!"
My father's voice cracked through the air like a whip. Clara froze, her chest heaving, her gaze promising murder.
My father didn't look at her. He looked at me, then at my mother.
His expression wasn't one of anger anymore, but of cold, rapid calculation. I saw that moment the businessman in him assessed the scandal, the assets, the damage control.
"Sit down, Clara," he said, his tone leaving no argument. He turned his steel-gray eyes back to me. "You are certain."
It wasn't a question. I nodded, a miserable jerk of my head.
He let out a long, slow breath, placing his crumpled newspaper neatly aside.
"Then there is only one solution to protect both families from disgrace."
He looked at my mother, who gave a tight, grim nod of agreement.
"The Van Horns will be contacted. The wedding will proceed as planned between our families."
His gaze settled on me, final and absolute. "But it will be you, Ava, who marries Ethan Van Horn. Not Clara."
The words landed, sealing my fate.
Clara made a strangled sound of pure outrage. My mother closed her eyes briefly, a sign of surrender to necessity.
I just stood there, the tears drying cold on my cheeks. Th
e bombshell had been dropped. The war was declared. And I had just been handed over to the enemy, with a ring and a vow, as my only armor.
e bombshell had been dropped. The war was declared. And I had just been handed over to the enemy, with a ring and a vow, as my only armor.