Ultimatum

I stare at the glowing screen of Thatcher's phone, my vision violently blurring as I process the undeniable, damning proof displayed right in front of my eyes: a photograph of a positive pregnancy test. Two stark, glaring lines instantly incinerate the beautiful future I had meticulously built with my fiancé.

The text messages exchanged between Thatcher and Camilla Simone sear themselves permanently into my mind, burning like acid.

‘Are you sure it’s mine?’ Thatcher’s message reads.

Camilla’s reply is a rapid-fire assault of blue bubbles demanding immediate attention. ‘Are you calling me a liar? Babies happen when you have sex, Thatcher. And we did more than just have sex. We fucked!’

His desperate reply sits right below it, acting like a lit match dropped directly onto my life. ‘You sound so sure I am the father. I don’t remember a fucking thing about that night!’

My chest physically caves in. The oxygen abruptly vanishes from the massive, expensive bedroom. A strangled, agonizing sob tears its way out of my throat before I can stop it. I clamp my free hand hard over my mouth, my fingertips slick with the hot tears already streaming down my ruined face. How did this happen? Thatcher. My Thatcher. The man who just spent hours thrusting inside me, claiming every inch of my body, got another woman pregnant?

And then, the final, sickening puzzle piece snaps into place. I suddenly connect the dots regarding Camilla. The very same woman who confidently strutted into my PR firm over a month ago, flawlessly dressed and demanding our exclusive services.

‘I am pregnant,’ Camilla had announced to Valeria and me, her lips curled into a subtle smirk. ‘And I don’t want the public to know about my pregnancy until after my wedding.’

At WPPR, we live for these kinds of stories. People pay exorbitant amounts of money to shield their dirty secrets and maintain their pristine high-society images. But looking at these texts, a cold wave of nausea washes over me. Camilla wasn't seeking my professional expertise.

She maliciously chose me to make a bold, devastating statement to Thatcher. She sat right in front of me, carrying my fiancé's baby, and paid me to keep it a secret.

"Babe."

Thatcher’s sleep-heavy voice snaps me violently out of my shattered trance.

I flinch, lifting my gaze to him, not even bothering to wipe my tears away. The mattress shifts under his weight as he reaches over and switches on the bedside lamp. Warm, golden light floods the room, harshly illuminating the wreckage of our relationship.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness. It takes him exactly five seconds for his sleepy blue eyes to instantly widen as they take in my tear-stained, ruined face and the sight of his own phone clutched fiercely in my trembling hand.

"Why are you crying?" His voice is thick with sleep, but an edge of panic rapidly bleeds into it. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, his gaze darting between my face and his phone. "What's going on?"

"What exactly is going on between you and Camilla?" I demand, silently praising my own restraint for not stuttering. My tone is dead, hollowed out by the sheer force of the betrayal.

A brutal tug-of-war wages inside my head. One desperate, pathetic part of me still wants to believe he would never do this to me. The other part screams at me to wake the fuck up. The evidence is literally glowing in my hand, ready to bite me in the face.

Thatcher immediately sits up on the edge of the mattress, the sheets falling away from his bare chest. His brow deeply creases as he snatches the phone from my unresisting fingers and scans the damning messages on the screen.

I clench my hands into tight fists, my fingernails biting painfully into my palms. The crippling sadness in my chest is rapidly morphing into a black hole of sheer, unadulterated anger. Everything—the kids we talked about, waking up together, coming home to each other every single night—is being sucked right into the void. This was the man I was supposed to marry. He was my endgame. Or so I thought.

He tosses the phone onto the nightstand like it's burning him. He stretches to his full height, his broad frame towering over me as he urgently reaches out for me. "Elena, it's not what it seems."

I violently pull away, slapping his hands away from my arms. "Don't touch me!"

He ignores my plea, his jaw clenching as he hooks a firm finger beneath my chin, forcing me to look up into his face. His pleading blue eyes desperately meet mine. "Baby, please. Let me explain."

"Explain what?!" I scream, violently jerking my face out of his grip. A massive tsunami of emotions crashes over me, tearing down whatever fragile restraint I had left. My entire body shakes uncontrollably. "Everything I needed to know is right there in that fucking conversation! You woke up naked next to her in your childhood bedroom. She is two months pregnant, Thatcher! Two months! And you deceitfully kept all of this hidden from me!"

He drags a desperate, heavy hand over his face, roughing up his hair. "Baby, I swear to God, I don't remember that night. I was completely, fucking wasted."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh that scrapes against my raw throat. Breathing feels like swallowing glass. Thatcher has always been assertive. He is a heavyweight who can drink anyone under the table. The excuse is so flimsy it makes me sick.

I ruthlessly shoot back, my eyes locking onto his. "Are you absolutely sure you didn't fuck her? Because Camilla sounds incredibly sure."

The silence that fills the room is deafening. He just stands there, his jaw working, unable to meet my gaze. His ensuing silence is a bitter, undeniable confirmation. He fucked her.

I take a sharp, suffocating breath, stumbling backward. Being in his proximity suddenly feels like a trap. The air around him is toxic.

Thatcher exhales, his chest rising and falling in a hatefully calm, collected rhythm. How dare he? How the hell can he stand there looking so lawyerly and composed while I remain a crying, broken mess on the floor?

"Just give me time," he begs, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive tone he uses in the courtroom. "I will fix this situation."

"How?" I mockingly ask, my voice rising in disbelief. "How do you plan to fix this, Thatcher? Huh? You got another woman pregnant! I bet your snobby mother would be absolutely ecstatic."

His snobby mother—who always despised my working-class background and prayed he'd marry high society—would be thrilled. Since the day he introduced me to his family, her animosity towards me was as clear as a cloudless sky. Thatcher’s family came from old money. Being the only son of a prominent lawyer and a doctor, his mother bluntly told me to my face that she wanted him to marry one of her rich friends' daughters, not some publicist working a nine-to-five.

When Thatcher guiltily lowers his head, blowing out a heavy breath, I realize the horrifying truth.

My stomach violently drops. "She already knows, doesn't she?" I whisper, wiping a fresh wave of tears from my cheeks. "I bet she's already planning your wedding with Camilla."

Thatcher urgently reaches for me again, his face twisting in panic, but I scramble further back. "Elena... you're the one I want to marry. I swear to you. Please, don't do this to us. I will figure something out."

"Don't do this to us?" I scream, the sheer audacity of his words fueling the fire in my veins. "You are the one who destroyed us! I love you, but this is too much. I can't do this. I need space."

Suddenly, a dangerous, cold shadow completely crosses his handsome face. The desperate, pleading fiancé vanishes, instantly replaced by the ruthless, calculating lawyer who never loses a case.

He steps toward me, his stance dominating and absolute. He issues a chilling, calculated threat. "If you leave now, Elena, I absolutely won't chase you."

I freeze in horror. Of all the things I expected him to say, that line never even crossed my mind.

"My mother threatened to completely disown me if I didn't marry Camilla," he reveals, his long lashes lowering as his intense gaze pierces right through my soul. He takes another slow step, trapping me with his words. "I have nothing left to lose. I was ready to give up everything for you. Everything. But if you walk away now, this way... you will lose me forever."

My mouth runs completely dry. I stare at the man standing in front of me, utterly horrified by his masterful manipulation. He is twisting the narrative, finding a legal loophole in our relationship to blame me for a destruction he solely caused. He is giving me an ultimatum. Accept his cheating and his illegitimate child, or be the one responsible for ending our engagement.

My simmering anger finally completely eclipses my crippling grief. The tears immediately dry up, replaced by a scorching, empowering fury. I am not the one who fucked Camilla. I refuse to be the villain in his fucked-up narrative.

I jut my chin up, meeting his cold gaze with pure, unadulterated defiance. I straighten my spine, stripping away the vulnerability he thought he could prey on.

"Well," I say, my voice steady and completely devoid of any remaining affection. "You don't have to fight for anything anymore, Thatcher."

Without giving him a single second to respond, I turn my back on him. My heart pounds a frantic, aggressive rhythm against my ribs as I scan the dark room for anything to cover my naked body. I bypass my own discarded dress—too complicated, too much effort. Instead, I snatch one of Thatcher’s oversized button-down shirts and a pair of his grey joggers off the armchair. I pull them on with sharp, jerky movements, the fabric swallowing my small frame. The scent of his expensive cologne clings to the cotton, a cruel reminder of the man I thought I knew. I ignore the phantom burns on my skin where his hands had touched me just hours ago. I don't look back at the bed. I don't look back at him. I march straight out of the bedroom and down the long hallway, leaving the suffocating wreckage of our relationship dead in my wake.