22. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The weeks blur together in a haze of quiet comfort.
It’s late Sunday afternoon, and golden light stretches across the floor of Will’s apartment. We haven’t left the place in two days. Not because we can’t, but because for now, we choose not to. Keeping our relationship private means avoiding the spotlight. No dinners out, no events.
And strangely, I don’t miss any of it.
I used to fill every hour with movement. Networking mixers, firm functions, chasing success like it was something I could catch if I just stayed busy enough.
Now, I’ve found something better.
The slow ease of mornings spent tangled in his sheets. Will’s arm draped heavy around my waist. The scratch of his stubble against my skin. His laugh rumbling under my palm when I press it to his chest.
I told myself I loved the chaos, but the truth is, I just didn’t want to be alone.
I know things will shift once we go public. The quiet won’t last forever. But for now, this is enough. More than enough.
I’m sprawled across Will’s plush couch, half-heartedly pretending to watch an old sitcom while he answers emails from the kitchen counter.
In truth, I’m watching him. The way he drags a hand over his mouth between keystrokes.
The furrow of his brow. Even in the simplest clothes, light gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, he looks unfairly good.
Meanwhile, I’m swimming in borrowed clothes: a soft blue Henley and basketball shorts that could fit two of me. My hair is a wild, air-dried mess, but I don’t care. With Will’s steady stream of praise, I’ve never felt more beautiful.
The new car has sparked curiosity at work.
Neil keeps getting cornered about how I can afford it.
Maria from Accounting gave me a lecture on financial responsibility.
I haven’t told anyone my boyfriend bought it for me.
Not just because we’re keeping things quiet, but because part of me hates how it looks.
Like maybe I asked for it. Like maybe I’m that kind of woman.
But I love the car. The way the engine purrs when I tap the gas. How the leather seats hold me tight through every curve. Even the commute feels different now. Other drivers actually yield instead of treating the freeway like a war zone.
“Right,” Will says, snapping his laptop shut and breaking me from my thoughts. “Where were we?”
He strides over and settles effortlessly between my thighs. Leaning down, he gently brushes my hair from my face.
My phone dings. Normally, I’d ignore it, but he picks it up off the coffee table and hands it to me without a word.
I unlock the screen, open my inbox, and freeze at a new email.
Miss Reed,
Court is booked. Six weeks.
Kind regards,
Will Carter
Carter & Ross
The words blur for a moment, harsh and impersonal against the warmth of this moment.
“You could’ve just told me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
His thumb traces along my jaw. “We don’t talk about work.”
“Six weeks is soon.” Too soon. Much sooner than I’d let myself believe.
“Not soon enough,” he says, his fingers tightening gently, tipping my chin toward him. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Under any other circumstances, that would thrill me.
But now?
Now it feels like I’ve swallowed a stone. It’s heavy, cold and lodged deep in my stomach. I push gently against his chest, just enough to create space.
He booked the court date. That means no more pretending, no more distance between us and the inevitable.
Six weeks. Six weeks is real.
I stand, my pulse thudding in my ears. “I should go,” I say lightly, my voice sounding too bright and fake. “Laundry won’t do itself.”
My things are scattered across his apartment. The bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. I head toward the dresser where I left my bag, moving too quickly, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll come help,” he offers, following.
“It’s fine.” Sharper than I meant it to be. I exhale, softening my tone. “Really. It’s okay.”
The look he gives me, hurt and a little confused, nearly unravels me. It’s sweet. After two straight days wrapped around each other, most people would be desperate for space. But not him. I like it.
It’s not that I want to leave. I just need to think. To breathe.
Six weeks. It’s happening.
I force a smile and press a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He pauses, studying me. Then nods.
The bathwater has long gone cold by the time I finally drag myself out. I towel off, wrap myself in my robe, and settle in my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees.
I’ve been telling myself that the court date is a problem for Work Abigail. The kind of thing to shelve neatly in the back of my mind until Monday morning. But the dread is still there. Low and constant, like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Then, an unexpected distraction appears in my inbox. An email from Celia.
Subject: Just sending these to myself.
There’s no message. Just a dozen photos attached.
Crystal flutes. A towering, three-tier cake.
Strings of fairy lights twinkling in the background.
Mom’s arms are wrapped tightly around Celia and Oscar, her face lit with a kind of joy and pride I’ve never seen pointed in my direction.
Oscar, with his perfect teeth and beach-blond hair, looks like he was factory-issued. Exactly like a real-life Ken doll.
And then it clicks. This is Celia’s engagement party.
It was last night and no one told me.
I stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard. A hundred responses swirl in my head. But only one question really matters: Why didn’t you tell me?
But it’s obvious. They know I can’t just hop on a flight and cross the world for a party. That’s the rational explanation. It still hurts.
It always hurts.
To be on the outside looking in. To feel like an afterthought in my own family. Maybe that’s why I work so much. Why I say yes to every event, every social function, every late-night task. The busyness fills the space where family should have been.
But now I have Will.
Do I?
The prenup keeps flashing in my mind like a warning light. But is it like the warning light in my car? Something I can ignore for a while but eventually everything’s going to break down?
I don’t understand prenups. What does it say about a couple if they start by planning for the end? I always thought I’d rather walk away than enter a marriage with legal boundaries mapped out before we even say I do.
And yet when I’m with him, I feel like myself. I feel like I can be myself. Not the daughter who can’t measure up. Not the woman trying to impress her boss. Just me. And somehow, that’s enough.
Deep down, I know I’d sign one. I’d give up my principles, let go of everything I swore I’d never compromise, for him. Even knowing what it means. Even knowing it gives him an exit.
And that realization makes me feel small. Weak. Like I’m already fading into the background of someone else’s life.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. We’re nowhere close to that anyway.
First, I have to face him in court.