Chapter 25
April
Ileave the office like I’m bleeding.
Not visibly. Not dramatically. No tears spilling down my face in the lobby, no sobbing into my hands. Just that internal rupture, like something inside me has been split open and now everything I thought I understood is leaking out sideways and flowing into the fucking gutter.
The elevator ride down feels longer than physics should allow. I keep my chin up. I keep my shoulders back. I keep my mouth neutral. But the moment the revolving doors spit me back onto the sidewalk, the air hits my face, and I realize I’m shaking.
I need to go somewhere so I can put all this together. Somewhere to stuff it until it stops screaming.
So I do the stupidest, most human thing I can think of.
I go shopping.
Not for a dress, not for shoes, not for anything that has to do with the woman I’m trying to pretend I am.
I go because my body knows there’s a baby inside me, because my brain is shorting out, because if I hold something tiny and soft in my hands maybe it’ll make this feel real in a way that doesn’t hurt.
A boutique catches my eye—one of those places with pale wood floors and soft lighting and clothes so delicate they look like they’re meant to be worn by babies who don’t move or cry or spit up. The window display is all cream and blush and fragile.
I push inside.
A bell chimes. Warmth envelops me. The smell of fabric and perfume and money sinks into my lungs. The sales associate smiles at me like I’m exactly the kind of customer she wants, until her eyes sharpen slightly, as if something about my face is familiar.
I keep moving before she can place it.
There are racks of tiny onesies, baby blankets folded and stacked, soft knitted booties the size of my thumb. I pick up a little neutral-colored cardigan and rub the fabric between my fingers, trying to imagine a tiny person wearing it, trying to imagine a future that doesn’t feel like a trap.
And then I hear them.
Four women near the back, clustered around a display of cashmere wraps.
Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Heavy coats draped over their arms like they’re decorative.
They speak in low, amused tones—the kind of low that still carries, because they don’t actually believe anyone they’d consider relevant is listening.
“I’m telling you,” one says, voice dripping with bright cruelty, “that’s her.”
My stomach sinks again.
Another leans in. “The one from the photos?”
“Mhm,” the first confirms, delighted. “The girl who’s dating Anthony Voss.”
I go still, cardigan frozen in my hand. My blood turns cold, then hot, then cold again.
“Please,” another woman scoffs. “As if he’s actually dating her. He trades women out like accessories.”
They laugh softly. A chorus of expensive amusement.
The first woman continues, “Did you see her? The photos were… generous.”
Someone makes a little sound of mock sympathy. “She’s definitely a bit thicker than she looked, isn’t she?”
My throat tightens. My hand instinctively slides to my stomach, protective, as if I can shield myself from words.
The women keep going, unbothered.
“He’ll come to his senses,” the first woman says dismissively, like she’s talking about the weather. “My friend slept with him a few years ago. He drops them like flies. He always does.”
They all murmur in agreement, satisfied by their own certainty.
I can’t breathe. It’s not the kind of panic attack from the street, not the hyperventilating kind. It’s something quieter and worse. A slow, sick collapse.
They recognized me. From the photo. The one Karen shoved across the table at that board meeting. The one I didn’t even know existed until Anthony showed me. I’m not a person to them. I’m a story. A punchline. A rumor with legs.
The cardigan slips out of my fingers and lands back on the table without a sound. I don’t buy anything. I don’t look at the women. I don’t give the sales associate a chance to ask if I need help.
I just turn and walk out like my body is on autopilot, like my brain has pulled the emergency cord and shut down everything but movement.
Outside, the city hits me again: noise, wind, traffic, people brushing past. The cold air stings my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to cry in public, refusing to give any of this the satisfaction of seeing me break.
But my confidence is gone. Not cracked. Gone. Like it evaporated into thin air.
Because the worst part isn’t that they were mean. The worst part is that they sounded… certain. He always does.
I keep walking, aimless, and my thoughts start to turn into knives.
What if they’re right?
What if this is a pattern? Women rotating through his life until he gets bored, until he decides they’re inconvenient, until the softness ends and the steel returns?
What if the last few days, the bed, the warmth, the way he held me like it mattered were just him practicing the role of “family” because he needed it?
What if I’m just a solution he’s getting used to?
My chest tightens. My pulse skitters.
I need space. I need distance. I need to stop letting him reach into me and rearrange everything. I should quit. I should get out. I should go back to my apartment, back to something I can control.
And then the next thought comes—sharp, practical, merciless.
Money.
Angela. Ava. Bills that don’t care about my pride or my heartbreak.
I stop walking so abruptly that someone bumps into me and mutters an apology, but I barely hear it. My hand dives into my bag for my phone. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
Aidan Snow’s number isn’t saved. But I’m not an idiot. I can find it. I can pull it from the missed call log like it's nothing.
My stomach churns as I hit call.
He answers like he’s been waiting.
“April Swan,” Aidan says smoothly. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but desperation is louder than disgust right now. “I want to meet,” I say, the words coming out flat because if I let emotion in, I’ll shatter on the sidewalk. “About the job.”
“Of course,” he says. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” I blurt. “If you can.”
“I can,” he says, warm as a knife. “I’ll send you details in the morning.”
I swallow. “Fine.”
He chuckles softly. “You’re making a smart choice.”
I end the call before he can say anything else, hand shaking. The moment it’s done, nausea rolls through me. I lean against a cold stone building and close my eyes, breathing hard.
I don’t even know if I want the job. I just know I need an exit, need proof I’m not trapped, need to feel like I have something that’s mine again. My phone feels heavier now, like it knows what I just did.
I open my messages and stare at Anthony Voss’s name. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a long moment, throat tight.
Me:
I need space. I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll work from home for a few days.
The reply comes fast enough that it makes my heart lurch, like he’d been holding the phone, like he’d been waiting for the blow.
Anthony Voss:
I’m sorry.
Two words he’s never said to me before. Simple. Bare. I stare at it in utter shock.
Because somehow they hurt more than anything Karen said, more than those women’s laughter, more than the way he fucked up. I can hear him in them—stripped of control, stripped of the right thing to do, panicking.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn. Then I tuck the phone away, pull my coat tighter, and start walking again, away from the boutique, away from the office, away from the life that suddenly feels like it’s closing around me from every side.