The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. âHappy birthday to you...â I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. âHappy birthday, dear Katia...â My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. âHappy birthday, sweetheart,â she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like sheâd sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like sheâd grown a second head. Because hereâs the thing: Martha didnât do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. âUm... thanks?â I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. âI made the cupcake myself,â she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. âBlow it out,â my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. âOkay, seriously. Whatâs going on?â My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like sheâd ever touched it before. âYouâre twenty now,â she said gently. âThatâs a very important age.â âCool,â I said, unimpressed. âShould I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?â Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. âYouâre a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.â There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. âOkayâŚâ She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. âYouâve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.â The room didnât go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldnât even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. âWho?â I asked, even though Iâd heard her perfectly. âJulian Windsor,â she repeated, like I was the dumb one. âThe Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.â I blinked. âWhat?!â Dad gave me a sheepish look. âWe didnât want to overwhelm you at the time.â âAt the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!â Momâs smile never wavered. âIt was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. Youâre incredibly lucky.â Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I shouldâve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. âIâve never even met him,â I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what sheâd just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. âNeither has Delia,â she replied smoothly. âBut if things had gone differently, she wouldâve married him instead. You should be grateful itâs you.â âWow,â I muttered. âHow generous of you, Mother.â Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. âHeâs supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I donât know. Theyâre super secretive.â âOh great,â I snapped. âSo Iâm marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?â My momâs eyes hardened, just for a second. âDonât be dramatic. Heâs real. And they chose you. That should mean something.â âNo,â I said. âWhat means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.â My dad cleared his throat. âWe thought weâd wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.â I stared at him. âYou mean this is happening now?â âTheyâve arranged to meet in a few weeks,â my mother said. âThere will be dinner. Formalities. Youâll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.â Public? Right. Because this wasnât a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. âI canât believe this,â I said, my voice flat. âYou didnât even ask me.â âYou donât ask about opportunities like this,â she said firmly. âYou accept them.â That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasnât the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. âI need air,â I said. Mom stood up. âKatia, donât be ridiculousââ âNo. I need to think. Iâm going to Vegas.â That caught her off guard. âVegas?â âJust a weekend,â I lied. âTo clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.â She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her arm. âLet her go. Sheâll come around.â I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. âFine,â she said, that awful smile returning. âGo. Take some time. But donât forget whatâs waiting when you come back.â I didnât answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didnât know was that I wasnât going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. The Racer and the Popped Cherry ~Katia~ Vegas heat hit me like a wave the second I stepped off the private jet. The runway shimmered under the late afternoon sun, and I squinted past my sunglasses, already half-listening to the ping of updates on my encrypted racing burner phone. Six hours before the race, and my heart was already trying to climb out of my chest. But I wasnât nervous. I was hungry. The black Rolls Royce Ghost waiting for me outside the hangar wasnât subtle, but nothing about this trip was supposed to be. My crew greeted me like I was a CEO arriving for a hostile takeover. I didnât speak; they knew why I was here. The underground race wasnât some little street corner showdown. This was the elite of the elite, with closed invitations, encrypted access, and enough luxury vehicles to make a Formula 1 grid look like a used lot. They held it at a decommissioned airfield just outside the city. From the sky, it looked abandoned. From the ground? It was a neon-lit colosseum, pulsing with noise and heat and money. My car was already there. A midnight-blue Aston Martin Valkyrie AMR Pro, customized down to the bolts. The engine purred like a lion in a cage. I ran my hand along the hood, letting the vibration travel up my arm. This machine was built to win. Just like me. I pulled on my suit in the back trailer, matte black, form-fitted, and made from materials that cost more than some peopleâs homes. The helmet was blacked out, with only a blood-red visor slit. I didnât need people seeing my face. They didnât deserve to. By the time I stepped onto the tarmac, the place was alive. Hundreds of people lined the barricades, some rich kids trying to live out their Fast & Furious fantasies, some seasoned racers who had bet money they couldnât afford to lose. Cameras flashed, and beats thumped from speakers the size of trucks. Drones hovered above, catching every movement. But everyone turned when someone arrived. I believe it must be the infamous Jules. Silver McLaren Sabre. Chrome trim with black spoilers. The engine sound was so deep it made the air feel heavier. He stepped out like a ghost in steel. His helmet mirrored mine, faceless and unreadable. He didnât look at me, not directly, but I felt his attention like static on my skin. Everyone knew Jules, but no one knew who he was or what he looked like. He had never lost. Not once. Not in three years. His name was synonymous with fear on the track. Not just because he was fast. But because he made the others look like they were standing still. Until now, I didnât come to Vegas for a vacation. I came to end his streak. The announcerâs voice echoed over the PA system. âLadies and gentlemen... this is the one youâve been waiting for. The Queen of the Strip versus the Phantom King. Catwoman. Jules. One race, one winner.â The crowd screamed. Cameras whipped between us. I stepped into my car and strapped in, letting the silence of the cockpit swallow me whole. My hands slid over the wheel like I was touching something sacred. The world outside didnât exist anymore. There was just the road, the engine, and the finish line. The lights went red. Then yellow. Then, Green and I launched. The G-force hit like a punch to the chest. My vision tunneled as I hit the first corner, tires screaming against the pavement. Jules was there, always there like a shadow glued to my rearview mirror. Every turn, he matched. Every burst of speed, he answered. But I had studied him. I knew how he took his corners. Knew where he hesitated by a millisecond. And tonight, I wasnât just racing; I was attacking. We blazed through lap one in under a minute. Lap two blurred with flames from the sidelines, the smell of burned rubber, and the deafening chant of the crowd. My pulse synced with the growl of my engine. By lap three, I took a chance. He pulled left, I cut inside and clipped the corner, skimming the barricade by inches. My car shook. My teeth rattled. But I surged ahead. The crowd exploded. The final stretch was chaosânecks craning, bets screaming, people recording history with shaky hands. I kept my foot down. No fear. No mercy. The finish line tore toward me like a beast. I crossed it first. By 0.7 seconds. I slammed the brakes and spun the car halfway into a drift before it stopped. My breath came in ragged bursts, and for a moment, I didnât move. I let it sink in. I had just beaten Jules. The motherfucking undefeated legend. And Iâd done it in his city. I stepped out slowly. Cameras swarmed. Fans screamed. But I didnât take off my helmet. I raised one gloved hand to the crowd and walked away. Jules looked at me. He raised two fingers to his helmet and gave me a slow, almost amused salute. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd. He was gone before I could look again. No confrontation. No handshake. Typical, but I didnât care. Iâd done what no one else could do. And I needed a drink. The bar was tucked away in the kind of luxury hotel that only old money could affordâone of those places with marble floors, glass elevators, and cocktails that cost more than a pair of shoes. I sat at the corner table in my small black dress. My street clothes and helmet locked in the car, eyes hidden behind designer shades. I ordered something strong and didnât care what it was. Halfway through my second drink, they approachedâtwo guys. Mid-twenties or late twenties, suits undone, confidence turned up too high. Rich, clearly. One had a dark smirk that didnât quite match his relaxed posture. The other looked like the kind of guy who didnât need to try to be charming; it just happened. âMind if we sit?â one of them asked. I shrugged. âVegas, isnât it?â They slid into the booth and started talking. I wasnât listening to the words. I just needed noise. Something to drown the thoughts. We drank. More than we should have. I didnât ask for names. They didnât either. Somewhere between laughing too hard and the floor tilting beneath me, I felt a hand brush mine. Warm. Gentle. Not urgent. Just there. I didnât pull away. Instead, I grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. We danced, but I didn't know what came over me; maybe it was the drink, but I was pressing my ass on his dick as I danced. Maybe it has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on top of the building, and there was a chopper waiting for us. He led me inside the chopper. The pilot didn't even bother looking at us. The man kissed me; I took off his shirt first. He looked at me as though pitying me. But I kept rubbing on his dick while we kissed. "Fuck! I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to fuck right now." "Then fuck me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to fuck me. He crawls over me, using his knee to separate my legs, and his hand runs up my thigh and over the papery fabric of my black dress. He rubbed his finger on one of my nipples. I writhed under him, and that seemed to encourage him, and I felt his hardness stab against my pelvis. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The drug was too much." He whispers. "Just fuck me," I begged. "I'm going to cum inside you; you make me so hard, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. Wet softness grips one of my nipples in his mouth, and I moan. His fingers make their way between my legs and gently slip them between my lips, fondling me. then pressed the head against my slick lips. I gasped as he slid it up and down, lubricating himself with my wetness. Then he was done being gentle. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. We arrived at a hotel; he was holding me like I was a prize. "Wanna get married." He asked, and I nodded. We bought a ring for men. "Where is mine?" I asked, and he laughed. "My hotel room, yours is special," he says, and a man arrived with some documents, and we both signed. I don't know what I was signing, but I just signed. I will cum inside you ~Katia~ "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get laid. I could still feel the ache between my legs. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can fuck you however I want because you are now my wife, princess." The room was dark, and I was feeling all sorts of things; I doubt I even remember my name at this point. He sent me launching onto a bed. His finger ran along my lips. His lips traced along my neck. It tickles, and it feels so fucking good. My mind zigzags in pleasure and confusion. "I love your fucking body, wifey." He pulls up my dress, and now I am exposed. "I couldn't wait to get you here so I can taste your cunt from the chopper. I want to make it memorable for you." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so fucking soft," he gritted as he started sucking on my nipples. I can feel the blood rushing between my legs. "You are so ready for me." Before I could answer, he took my breath away as he slid his fingers inside my pussy, and I moaned. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my clit. I feel that buildup I felt early on the chopper when he was sucking on my nipple. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He presses a hand against my folds, and I gasp as he lubricates himself with my wetness. Then he thrust inside me, and I sucked in a breath; my mind raced with thoughts in that brief moment. He then captured my lips and started to move. When he threw another thrust, I gasped into the kiss. "So fucking perfect." He says, pulling in and out, in and out, fucking me, stretching me. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. His teeth tug on my nipples. Then he pressed his lips on mine and kissed me. He then wrapped his arm around me and pulled me up so that he was kneeling on the bed and I was sitting on him. He rocked me up and down. I tightened around his dick. I was no longer in pain; I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us fucking. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on, "I can feel you clenching on my dick, princess," he says as he squeezed my ass and pulled me tightly towards him so that I was full. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He sucked on my breast, and my hips swiveled. He gripped his cock in one hand and thrust inside me again; I let out a deep moan, and pleasure started spraying onto every inch of me. Each thrust was just another little wave colliding against me. He grunts and plunges deeply into me, taking himself to the climax he couldn't achieve the time we were in the chopper. He pulled out and watched my pussy, then spread my legs and thrust back in. His thrusts were now violent, and he increased his pace. I started to shake beneath him. I screamed and came, and I dragged him along with me. I felt his cum filling me, and we stayed like that for some time, and after a while his dick started to twitch inside me, and he started to thrust again. He fucked me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. Morning slammed into me with cruel sunlight and a splitting headache. I woke up in a room I didnât recognize. The room screamed money, and the scent of sex and something expensiveâcologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I was naked under the sheets, tangled in them like Iâd been tossed there, and beside me, a man lay asleep. A stranger, panic hit me like a punch to the chest. I couldnât even look at him. I didnât want to. I didnât want to know what kind of face went with the body that had touched mine, claimed mine. I sat up too fast, and pain shot between my legs like a warning. I gasped and clutched the sheets tighter. Everything down there was sore and swollen. The ache in my thighs was sharp, deep, and humiliating. I scanned the floor, found my dressâcrumpled and reeking of bar smoke and sweatâand yanked it on, wincing with every movement. My heels were on their sides by the door. I hobbled toward them like I was learning to walk again, forcing myself to stand tall even when I wanted to curl into myself and disappear. What the hell happened last night? I remembered the race. The victory. The roar of the crowd. I remembered heading to the bar to celebrate. I ordered one drink, then another, then⌠then two guys approached me. Their faces were blurry. Everything after that? Blank, like someone hit the erase button on my memory. There was laughter, I think. Maybe a game of pool. A joke. Something about tequila. And thenânothing. Just soreness. Just this stranger. Just a room I didnât know. I found my purse by the couch, slung it over my shoulder, and didnât look back. I didnât want to wake him. I didnât want him to speak. I didnât want him to remember me, either. I made my way to the parking garage, ignoring the way my legs trembled with every step, found my car, and drove back to my hotel like a ghost at the wheel. When I finally made it to my suite, I didnât even stop to breathe. I stripped the dress off again, went straight into the bathroom, and turned on the shower like I could rinse off the confusion clinging to me. The water hit my skin, and I almost jumped. I smelled like sex and sweat, like someone elseâs body had touched every inch of mine, and I didnât even get the decency of a name. My chest was tight, my eyes burned, and when I splashed water on my face, something cold clicked against my cheek. I froze and looked down at my left hand, and my stomach dropped into my feet. I was wearing a ring. Not costume jewelry. Not something cheap from a souvenir shop. This thing sparkled. It shone. It looked like commitment, permanence, and possibly a felony. âWhat the fuck?â I whispered. I yanked the shower curtain open and stepped out, dripping, breath shallow. My fingers trembled as I turned the ring around, trying to figure out if it was real. It looked expensive. Too expensive. But I didnât remember anything. Not a proposal. Not a chapel. Not even a kiss. I threw clothes on, barely drying off, and rushed out of my room to find the guy. Any guy. But I remembered I don't remember anything; there was no trail to follow, no clue, not even a room number. I hadn't even checked what floor I was on this morning. Even if I passed him in the lobby⌠I wouldnât recognize his face. âFuck me,â I whispered again, gripping my temple. I remembered nothing. Pregnant ~Katia~ I woke up to the sour taste of bile creeping up my throat, and my legs threw me out of bed before my brain could even catch up. The morning light seared into my eyes like punishment, and I stumbled across the cold floor, my feet slapping against the wood, straight into the bathroom. My knees hit the tile, and my head dipped into the toilet as I heaved, every muscle in my stomach wrenching like it was trying to pull itself inside out. It was the third morning in a row. No, the fifth. Hell, Iâd stopped counting. I could hear my mother's footsteps behind me, the sharp, impatient kind that clicked like a metronome of judgment. I knew she would follow me. My mom never misses a chance to remind me that Iâm a fuck-up. She stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms folded, her expression already set to that self-righteous scowl she reserved just for me. âItâs been two weeks since you came back from Las Vegas,â she muttered, her voice hard, like sheâd been rehearsing that line for maximum guilt. I didnât respond; my face was still half inside the toilet, and I wasnât in the mood to explain how morning sickness works to the woman who had raised me with more slaps than hugs. âDavid!â she yelled suddenly, like her voice alone wasnât enough of a siren. From somewhere in the house, I heard the crash of the remote hitting the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. Dad appeared a few seconds later, still wearing his worn-out robe, his hair a mess, and his face confused like someone had just told him his truck was pregnant. âWhat is it, woman?â he grunted. âYour daughter is pregnant,â my mother said with the kind of dramatic flair that shouldâve come with a stage spotlight. âIâve been watching her for some time now, and today is the day I've confirmed it. Katia is pregnant.â I wished the toilet would just suck me down. Swirl me into the pipes, and flush me away from all of this. âMartha, what do you mean? Our daughter is only twenty! How can she be pregnant?â Gee, Dad. Should I draw you a diagram? I thought it, but I didnât have the strength to say it. My hands were shaking, my forehead pressed to the cool toilet seat, and my stomach felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. Mom was already shoving the bathroom door open wider. âKatia, get out here!â she snapped. I wiped my mouth with shaking fingers and pulled myself up, grabbing the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like a ghost with a hangover. I had pale skin, sunken eyes, and lips that were cracked and raw. I stumbled out of the bathroom just in time to turn around and vomit again. My dadâs face turned to panic. âKatia, why? Baby, tell me you ate something bad. Maybe it's food poisoning, an allergy, or something like that, right?â Hope bloomed in his voice like he actually believed it. Poor man, my dad is the only person who has shown me love, not the woman who pushed me out to this world with her pussy and acted like it didn't matter. Mom only cared about my younger sister. To her, everything I have should be given to my sister Delia. âStop it, David,â Mom snapped. âKatia is pregnant.â She reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out a small white box like it was a weapon. âI actually bought this yesterday. Just in case.â She shoved it into my hand. The box was light but felt like it weighed fifty pounds. âGo inside and pee. Iâll do it myself.â âOf course you will,â I muttered under my breath. She didnât care what I thought. Never did. This was never about me, not really. It was about what Iâd done to her life, her reputation, and her delusions of having a perfect daughter. I walked back into the bathroom with the test in my hand, my fingers clutching it like it might explode. The plastic felt foreign and wrong. My heart thumped behind my ribs like it was trying to escape. I peed on the stick. My mother barged in before I could even stand up properly and snatched the test out of my hands like a jailer collecting contraband. She marched out of the bathroom, her mouth twisted into that grim line that meant she was going to pretend she was the victim in all of this. She stood there in the hallway, tapping one foot on the tile like she was counting the seconds until the results confirmed how much she hated me. Two minutes later, she screamed. âI TOLD YOU!â she bellowed, holding the test like it was bloody evidence. âSheâs pregnant!â My dad sat down slowly on the couch like his knees had given up. âJesus ChristâŚâ âWHO IS RESPONSIBLE?â Mom yelled. I didnât say a word. My throat was dry and cracked, and no sound wanted to come out. Besides, she wasnât asking. Not really. She was performing. She stepped forward and slapped me so hard that my head jerked sideways, and for a second, the room spun. âI ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU FUCKING SLUT!â she screamed. The slap wasnât the worst part. The worst part was how easy it was for her. Like it was second nature. I started crying, my hands up but not really protecting anything. She didnât care. She never did. Her love came with strings, with rules, with conditions I never managed to meet. Her eyes narrowed, scanning me, like she was looking for more sins to accuse me of. Thatâs when she saw it. The ring on my finger and her whole body went still. âWhatâs this?â she asked, her voice low now and dangerously calm. She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. The ring wasnât small; it was unmistakably bold. The silver band was smooth and heavy, sculpted like something out of another era. Set into it was a large, deep red gem that was so rich in color it looked like it had been plucked from the heart of a fire. It didnât sparkle like cheap jewelry; it burned, slow and low, like it was alive with its own light. The design was intricate and elegant in a way that made you stop and stare, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered money without ever saying a word. You could feel the weight of it. The importance of it. Like it had a story. The ring wasn't from any mall jewelry store, and it sure as hell didnât belong on the hand of a girl like me. I searched for the ring online, but nothing. Because your girl didn't just get pregnant in Vegas; well, she also got married. My mom started laughing. Not a normal laugh. Not the kind people do when somethingâs funny. It was manic, broken, and high-pitched, like something cracked inside her and spilled out in the shape of madness. âWHO GAVE YOU THIS RING?â she shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls. I didnât answer. Couldnât. My voice felt like it had been locked inside me. I looked at her, and then I looked past her to the blank TV, the broken remote, the wilted houseplant in the corner, and the chipped mug my dad always used, and I knew this wasnât the end of the beginning. This was the beginning of the end. She shook the test in front of me like it was my death certificate. âYou want to play grown-up?â she hissed. âWell, welcome to grown-up consequences. Who. Gave. You. That. Ring?â I clenched my jaw. Her voice dropped lower, venom wrapped in velvet. âAre you ashamed of him, or is he just long gone?â Dad finally spoke, voice thin. âMartha, stop.â She didnât even look at him. âDonât defend her. She has no idea what sheâs done.â âI know exactly what Iâve done,â I said suddenly. My voice didnât sound like mine; it was harder, raw, and scraped down to the bone. âIt was a mistake.â Her face twisted in disgust. âAnd now youâre going to ruin your life. Youâve thrown it all away.â I looked at her for a long moment, and something cold settled in my chest. âYou act like my life was ever mine to begin with.â That shut her up for a second. Just a second. âYouâre not staying here,â she said, final and sharp. âMarthaââ Dad started again. âNo,â she snapped. âShe made her choice. Let her figure it out.â Thrown into the Streets ~Katia~ âGet out!â my mom screamed, her voice tearing through the hallway like a bomb going off in a small room. The sound hit the walls and bounced back so violently, like the house itself was flinching. Even the air felt startled, buzzing with the kind of tension that makes your skin crawl. My heart slammed against my ribs, not from surprise, but from inevitability. This was the moment Iâd been bracing for since the pregnancy test turned positive, since the ring had caught her eye, since her fantasy version of my life collapsed like a cheap stage prop. I didnât even flinch because I knew it would come to this. I just knew it. The second she saw the ring, the second her fantasy of me being some corporate bride-to-be shattered, I could feel the sentence forming behind her teeth. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head, grinding down whatever affection she pretended to have left for me and replacing it with raw rage. And there it was. A weapon wrapped in spite and fury. âMartha, stop it!â my dad barked, stepping toward her like he might physically block the words from coming out of her mouth. âShe needs to tell us who got her pregnant. Thatâs what we need to focus on!â That was cute. He thought logic was still on the table. He thought this was still a conversation and not a public execution. âI donât care!â she snapped. âShe was supposed to marry Julian Windsor! And now, now sheâs pregnant for some crazy man!â She spat the word like it tasted poisonous. Her eyes dragged over my face, scanning for shame, for tears, for something she could grab onto and weaponize. Her mouth twisted like sheâd already decided I disgusted her more than usual, which honestly felt like a competitive sport in this house. âDo you even know who got you pregnant?â she hissed. Did it matter? I stayed quiet. My silence only made her louder and more unhinged. It always did. Silence terrified her. It meant she didnât have control. But letâs be real: she didnât care about the truth. She didnât care about my body or my decisions or even the baby growing inside me. She cared about Julian Windsor. Julian fucking Windsor. The man I was apparently betrothed to, like I was livestock in some Victorian tragedy. A man Iâd never met. Never spoken to. Never even seen in real life or on a screen or on a grainy news clip. He existed in theory and in contracts and in whispered business conversations behind closed doors. Not that I didnât try. Delia and I had searched him online once late at night, half curious, half bored, scrolling through search results like teenagers hunting for gossip, but we found nothing. No photos, no online interviews, no social media presence. Not even a blurry LinkedIn profile or a suspicious Wikipedia stub. Julian Windsor didnât exist, not in the way normal people exist. All we knew was that he was ridiculously rich. Like old-money, owns-an-island, probably-has-a-butler-named-Cedric rich. The kind of rich that doesnât need publicity because money itself is already power. And for some reason, my parents thought tossing me at him like a bargaining chip would fix everything wrong with their company, their reputation, and their fragile egos. My pregnancy ruined that plan. And no, I couldnât tell them I didnât know who the father was. Not because I was ashamed; shame was a luxury emotion in this house, but because I didnât have an answer. Vegas was a blur of neon lights, alcohol-soaked memories, half-remembered laughter, a ring, a promise made in chaos, and a reality I hadnât fully unpacked yet. I couldnât hand them a name even if my life depended on it. âOh my God, Kat, youâre pregnant?â Deliaâs voice sliced through the tension like an excited knife. Great. Just what I needed. The audience had arrived. She appeared at the top of the stairs, barefoot, wearing one of those silky little nightgowns she always saved for dramatic moments, like she was auditioning for some spoiled heiress role in her own fantasy movie. Her hair was twisted into that perfectly messy updo that probably took thirty minutes and three hair products to achieve. She leaned against the railing, eyes sparkling like she was about to witness something deliciously scandalous. She looked down at me like I was a soap opera sheâd been waiting to binge. âDoes that meanâŚâ she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest theatrically, âIâll be the one marrying Julian Windsor?â She said it like she just won a billion-dollar lottery. I scoffed, dryly and bitterly. âGlad to see someoneâs living the dream.â Delia didnât even pretend to be offended. Her smile widened like Christmas had come early. I turned toward my mom, hoping maybe this was the moment sheâd shut Delia down. That sheâd say no, that sheâd insist I was still the daughter promised, that she wouldnât trade me in like defective merchandise. But she didnât. She looked at my dad. And she smiled. âDavid,â she said softly, with that tone that always meant a scheme was sharpening its claws. My dad hesitated. His eyes met mine for a split second. Dark. Tired. Worn down by years of surrender. I saw the exact moment he folded, the exact moment he decided peace was more important than protecting me. âThey⌠insisted on our eldest daughter,â he said quietly, and the words sank into my chest like ice water. I was the contract. The pawn. The deal. And now I was broken merchandise. âWell,â my mom snapped, âsheâs pregnant! David, you know we can't give them a pregnant daughter." My father nodded. "Okay, we give them Dalia." She turned back to Delia, something wild lighting up her face. âYes,â she said, her voice climbing with excitement. âYES.â She actually leapt in place, clapping her hands once like a child whoâd just been told they were going to Disneyland. âI always said you were the beautiful one,â she gushed, grabbing Deliaâs face and kissing her forehead like sheâd just been crowned queen. âYouâre going to marry old money, baby.â Delia beamed, soaking it in like sunlight. Then my mom turned to me. The warmth evaporated instantly. âDavid, the city is going to laugh at us if she stays,â she said sharply. âKatia needs to leave this house.â My dadâs mouth opened but then closed. His jaw clenched like he was chewing a broken glass. He didnât say no. He didnât say anything. And just like that, it was happening. She stepped toward me with that clipped, decisive pace she always used when sheâd already made up her mind. Every step felt like a countdown. âGet out!â she barked. âYou do not take anything that your father and I bought for you. You are a woman now. Go to whoever got you pregnant.â Her voice cracked at the end, not from pain, but from pure disgust. Like I was something spoiled sitting on her counter that needed to be thrown away before it contaminated the rest of the house. I looked at my dad again, and he looked aside. He turned his head away from me like I wasnât there anymore. That hurt worse than the slap. Worse than the screaming. Worse than being treated like disposable trash. He was supposed to love me. He was supposed to be the one who didnât fold. I waited a beat. Just one fragile, stupid second hoping heâd change his mind, but he didnât. So I turned. I didnât speak. Didnât cry. Didnât scream. That wouldâve given them too much satisfaction, too much power over what was left of my dignity. I walked down the hallway like a ghost, the bathrobe around me suddenly feeling thinner than it had a moment ago. The air felt colder with every step, like the house itself was already rejecting me. I passed the family photos, forced smiles, staged vacations, and framed lies pretending to be memories. A younger version of me stared back from one picture, eyes hopeful and unaware of how conditional love could be. My chest felt hollow. I reached the door. Opened it. The outside air hit me like a slap. It was colder than I expected. The kind of cold that cuts through fabric and pride in one blow. I stepped outside in nothing but my robe, with no shoes. The only thing I had was my phone. And it was because they didn't see it on me; if they did, they could have taken it from me. And the door closed behind me. Iâm pregnant not fragile ~Katia~ I stood on the cold pavement, the wind creeping under the thin silk of my robe as if it were laughing at me. The gate of my parents' mansion, the same house I grew up in, the same house that now stood silently behind me like it had already disowned meâremained closed, its heavy black bars glinting in the morning light. I stared at them for a long moment, not because I wanted to go back inside, but because I needed to remind myself that I was really out. This wasnât a scene or a scare tactic. I had been thrown out of my home like a broken toy, barefoot, pregnant, and wearing nothing but the robe I slept in. But the mistake they made was thinking I had nowhere to go. I slipped my hand into the hidden pocket on the inside of the robe, feeling the familiar chill of the encrypted phone I kept for racing, business, and everything I didnât want my mother involved in. My fingers moved on their own, pressing the icon I knew by heart. It rang twice before she picked up. âMiss Kingston,â Samâs voice came through, sharp as ever. I didnât even know how to start. âSam, I need you to pick me up. Now.â There was no pause. âWhere are you?â âOutside the mansion. Just me, my robe, and whatever dignity Iâve got left.â Sam didnât ask why. She didnât question what had happened or why I was calling her sounding like Iâd been hit by a freight train. Thatâs why she was still my assistant, my fixer, my only consistent human contact outside of racing. She got things done; no commentary needed. âFifteen minutes,â she said, then hung up. I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, waiting for the world to spin a little slower. My stomach was cramping slightly, and the soreness between my legs reminded me again of everything that had happened, or not happened, because honestly, I still couldnât remember half of it. I tried to take deep breaths, but they felt shallow, stuck in my throat. The front gate stayed closed behind me. Not even a curtain twitched in the windows. They didnât just want me out; they wanted me gone. Fourteen minutes later, the matte black Rolls Royce pulled into the circle driveway like it owned the road. Sam stepped out from the driverâs side in all black, her cropped hair slicked back, sunglasses hiding her eyes, and a cool, neutral expression on her face. She had always looked like she belonged more to a high-stakes intelligence agency than to my personal affairs, and right now, I was glad for it. She popped the door open without saying a word, and I climbed in, pulling the robe tighter around me as the smell of leather and quiet power wrapped around me like a better version of home. As she pulled out onto the street, she finally glanced over at me. âSo...â âI got kicked out,â I said, voice flat. âPregnancy doesnât fit the family aesthetic.â âI figured,â Sam replied calmly. âYou still have the ring?â I nodded, holding up my left hand briefly before dropping it back into my lap. âI couldnât find you an apartment on such short notice,â she said, not missing a beat. âBut I booked you a suite at the VantĂŠ Hotel. Top floor, private entrance, 24/7 concierge, no press access. Itâll keep you under the radar for now.â âGood,â I said, pressing my forehead to the cool window. âHow long can I stay there?â âAs long as you want. You paid for six months in advance.â I turned my head slowly. âI did?â Sam shrugged one shoulder. âI figured weâd get here eventually.â I almost laughed. âYou really donât miss, do you?â âNot if I can help it.â We drove in silence for a while, the city moving around us as if I werenât sitting in the back of a luxury vehicle with my whole life flipped upside down. The farther we got from the house, the easier it was to breathe. My hands stopped shaking. My chest stopped burning. But the weight in my stomach, the not-so-subtle reminder of the baby inside me, stayed. Sam parked the car in the private garage under the VantĂŠ, scanned her ID, and led me up a secure elevator to the penthouse suite. The second the doors opened, I felt my lungs expand. Hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city, a kitchen bigger than the one at the mansion, and a king-sized bed I could finally collapse into without hearing my mother screaming in the hallway. For a second, I just stood there and let it all sink in. âIâll have your clothes and personal items brought in by morning,â Sam said, tapping her phone. âDo you want the full team back in place?â I looked at her. âYeah. All of them. Iâm racing.â She blinked. âExcuse me?â âIâm racing, Sam.â She crossed her arms. âYouâre pregnant.â âStill racing.â âDo you even hear yourself right now?â âDo you hear me?â I said, more sharply than intended. âThis is how I survive. This is how I work through shit. I canât just sit around waiting for life to fall back together. It doesnât work that way. I need to move.â âYou could... get hurt, Kat. You have millions in your account; you can survive more than 5 years and still pay the team. Racing, no, you hurt yourself or the baby.â âI could get hurt walking down the street. I could get hurt sitting on my ass doing nothing while the rest of the world moves on without me. Iâm not fragile. Iâm not helpless. Iâm justââ I cut myself off and sat on the edge of the bed. âI need to do something.â Sam stared at me for a long moment, then walked over and sat in the chair across from me. âOkay. Youâre the boss. You want races; Iâll get them. I can line up three back-to-back by next week. But you need to tell me what the plan is.â âThe plan is this,â I said, exhaling. âI race. I race every damn day if I have to. Three months, non-stop. You have three months to make sure everything is stableâhousing, new identity files, account protection, media suppression, and business management. I donât want the Windsors tracking me, and I sure as hell donât want my parents getting any closer.â âUnderstood. And the pregnancy?â I looked down. âI keep it quiet. Until I canât. If I start to show, Iâll wear baggy gear. The helmet stays on. Iâll deal with the rest when I get there.â âAnd what if you get sick during a race?â âI wonât.â âAnd if you do?â âThen I pull off the track, and we figure it out.â Sam nodded. âYouâre really not going to tell me who the father is?â I looked out the window, the city lights flickering like stars I couldnât reach. âI canât tell you what I donât know.â She didnât flinch or pry. She just tapped her phone and stood. âAll right. The first race is in two days. Nevada circuit. Closed entry, six-figure prize. Iâll email you the rest.â I stood and walked toward the window, arms crossed over my chest. âThanks, Sam.â She paused at the door. âI donât care how this looks, Katia. Youâre not alone in this.â The door shut behind her, and the silence that followed felt⌠different. Not empty. Just quiet. Just mine. I was still wearing the ring. I was still carrying someoneâs baby. But for the first time in days, I wasnât scared; I was free. The Ghost I Married ~Julian~ The skyline of Manhattan stretched in front of me, bathed in soft light as the sun filtered through thick gray clouds, painting the city in shades of steel and silver. The windows of my high-rise office offered a sweeping view of it all, an empire of glass and concrete, money and power, but none of it felt satisfying anymore. Not the deals. Not the penthouses. Not the silence that lingered long after everyone left for the day. Six years, and I still hadnât found her. Six fucking years chasing a ghost. I sat behind my desk, the corner office a cathedral of success, every inch tailored to meâsleek, minimal, spotless. My assistant had left my schedule printed neatly beside my coffee, which had long since gone cold. The ticking of the designer wall clock was the only sound until I heard the door open without a knock. âStill brooding?â Zane strolled in like he owned the place. He didnât, but he was one of the few people who could walk into my space uninvited and live to tell the story. I looked up at him, studied the smirk on his face, and knew before he even said a word that he had something to say I wouldnât like. âBy the way you look,â I said dryly, âIâm guessing youâve got the results.â Zane leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, always relaxed, always amused. âSix years, man. Youâve been searching for six damn years.â âAnd?â âAnd maybe itâs time to stop. Let her go, Julian. Youâre getting married. The Kensington girl.â I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a second. My temples throbbed. The Kensington girl, Jesus fucking Christ. âI donât even know whatâs going on with that family,â I muttered. âAt first, I was betrothed to Katia. Then they switched it to Delia. Like Iâm a fucking product on clearance.â Zane chuckled. âWell, you kind of are. Youâre the Windsor heir. People expect you to marry like itâs chess.â I gave him a look. âI donât even know what Delia looks like.â âYou donât have to,â he said with a shrug. âItâs not a love match. Youâre marrying her for your grandmother. Duty. Legacy. All that Windsor shit.â âIf not for Grandma...â I trailed off. âIf not for Grandma, youâd still be playing Phantom King in Vegas and chasing a girl whose name you donât know.â I said nothing. Zane pushed off the wall and pulled out his phone. âWell, since youâre marrying Delia Kensington, you might as well know what she looks like.â I raised an eyebrow as he tapped on his screen and handed me the phone. Instagram. Of course. A carefully curated feed of designer clothes, overpriced cocktails, vacations in Bali and Saint-Tropez, and the kind of artificial smiles you see on department store mannequins. Delia was pretty, no doubt. Blonde, bright-eyed, and painfully polished. But nothing about her felt real. âSheâs not my type,â I muttered. Zane smirked. âKeep scrolling.â I did. And then I stopped. A photo, captioned âHappy Birthday, sisââstared up at me. Two women, side by side, but only one of them made my heart stop. She wasnât smiling in the usual way. It wasnât for the camera. She wasnât performing. She wasnât posing. There was something distant in her expression, like her mind was somewhere else. Delia was all teeth and fake affection. But her sister Katia she wasâŚreal and beautiful. That name was tagged. âSheâs more my type,â I said quietly. Zane nodded. âKatia. The one you were originally promised to.â âRandom face on the internet, yes,â I muttered, eyes scanning the screen. Zane looked over. âJust another Kensington girl?â I shook my head. âNo. I donât know. Iâm just saying the face looks familiar, thatâs all. But my brain doesnât remember a damn thing.â The bitterness in my voice was sharp, even to my own ears. The truth stung more every time I said it. âIt pains me that I've been chasing a ghost for the past years. And now I have to marry some girl named Delia. " I say and then go on. "The pilot told me we were making out in the chopper,â I added, voice low. âSaid there were stains, blood on the seat. The staff at the hotel had to burn the sheets. I woke up alone the next morning. With a ring, no name, and no trace of her.â Zane winced and leaned back in his chair. âStill canât believe you went through with it.â âI was drugged,â I snapped, rubbing my temple. âYour idea of a bachelor send-off nearly got me married to a stripper.â Zane laughed. âThatâs slander. She wasnât a stripper.â âRight. And I wasnât blackout drunk, bleeding, and legally married to a woman I couldnât describe to a police sketch artist. Your fault, you spiked our drinks.â He held up his hands in mock surrender, the usual grin on his face fading slightly. âTell Grandma yet?â I shot him a cold look. âOkay, okay,â he muttered. âIâm just saying... sheâs been patient. For a Windsor.â I leaned forward and set the phone down on the desk with deliberate control. âYou know what pisses me off the most?â Zane raised an eyebrow. âWhat?â âSheâs not looking for me.â The silence that followed was heavier than I liked. Zane didnât speak. Maybe for once, he didnât know what to say. âI didnât imagine this,â I went on, my voice quieter now, sharper. âThe papers were real. The license. The ring. The night. It all happened. She married me. My pilot saw us. My lawyers confirmed the registration. So why the hell has she vanished?â Zane gave a light shrug. âMaybe she doesnât remember either.â I scoffed. âShe remembers. Trust me. You donât forget getting married in Vegas. Especially not to someone like me.â He stayed quiet. âSheâs choosing not to come forward,â I said. âShe probably thought you were just some drunk idiot with a private jet and a hard-on,â Zane said. âLetâs be real, Julian. That night? That wasnât exactly your finest moment.â âNo,â I muttered. âIt wasnât.â He stood and stretched like he had all the time in the world. âAnyway. You should go home. Your grandmotherâs been asking more questions lately.â I stood slowly. âIâll tell her I lost the ring.â Zane froze at the door. âYouâre serious?â My eyes met his. âDead serious.â He stared at me for a beat, then nodded and left, mumbling under his breath about secrets and stubborn men. I walked to the window and looked out over Manhattan. The streets were small from up here, ants moving through glass veins. I didnât see any of it. I saw the blackout. The blood. The blurred memory of a voice I couldnât place. Hands on my skin. A womanâs body in the dark. My ring on her finger. But never her face. Not even once. She was gone. And the worst part was, I had no way of finding her. She could walk past me on the street, and I wouldnât even know. She could be anyone. I closed my eyes and tried, one last time, to conjure the memory. A detail. A sound. A name. But there was nothing. Just the flash of heat. Her breath in my ear. Her body under mine. Her voiceâ "Then fuck me." I opened my eyes, my jaw clenched tight. She was gone. But not forgotten. I didnât care who she was. Or why she left. I didnât care what name she went by now, or if she even wore the ring anymore. What I cared about was one simple, irrefutable fact: She was mine. And one day, sooner or later, Iâd find her. Even if I had to tear this city apart. I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Time to see Grandma.
