You Don't Love Me

The words fell like a heavy stone into the stagnant air of the small interview room.

"I'm engaged, actually."

Valerie kept her pen hovering just above the lined paper of her notepad. She did not flinch. She did not blink. She forced her facial muscles to hold a flawless, polite mask, burying the sudden, sickening drop in her chest.

"That is huge news," she managed to say, her voice steady and bright. She curved her lips into a practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Congratulations, Mr. Hayes. I wish you and your fiancée all the best."

Desmond remained seated on the plush leather sofa. He stayed perfectly quiet, his dark gaze locked onto her face, searching for a crack in her armor. When he found none, his mouth set into a thin, hard line.

With the interview officially concluded, Valerie stood up from her chair and extended her hand across the coffee table. "Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Hayes. We appreciate your time."

He stood, towering over her in the cramped space. He took her hand for a brief, obligatory shake. His skin was warm, but his eyes were detached. He averted his gaze, released her hand, and strode out of the room without looking back.

Back in the chaotic bullpen of the office, Valerie dropped into her chair, her desk cluttered with notes and half-empty coffee cups. The noise around her was a dull roar.

Garrett paced next to her cubicle, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, Valerie! You should have kept at it. You should have found out who his fiancée is. That is the kind of massive scoop we are after."

Valerie tuned him out. Her mind raced, snagging on the harsh reality of Desmond's announcement. *Engaged.* She let out a quiet, bitter scoff. She didn't need to ask for a name. She was certain his new fiancée was his ex, the woman who had always hovered like a ghost in the background of their marriage.

Across the aisle, a group of oblivious coworkers huddled together, their voices carrying over the partition.

"Did you see him in person? The CEO of Vanguardcore Group is gorgeous. He has to be at least six-foot-three," one of the junior writers exclaimed.

"He has that commanding presence," another girl gushed, sighing dramatically. "He is the kind of guy who could make any woman feel so protected and safe."

"Yeah, well, keep dreaming," a third chimed in. "Let's not get carried away here. The man is officially off the market. He is engaged to some beauty queen. It is like something straight out of a modern fairy tale."

The entire floor buzzed with endless gossip about Oakhaven's youngest billionaire. Valerie would normally have jumped into the fray, steering the conversation to angle for a follow-up feature, but today, she was trapped in a grim, suffocating reality.

The finality of his engagement crushed whatever foolish, lingering hope she had buried deep in her heart. Any tiny chance of a reconciliation was gone. More importantly, with a new fiancée entering his life, she knew she could never bring herself to ask him for financial help. She could never reveal the existence of their secret son.

"Valerie?" Her coworker tapped her shoulder. "Valerie, time to head out. Shift is over."

Valerie blinked, surfacing from her heavy thoughts. She nodded slowly, grabbing her purse and packing her belongings with numb fingers.

Her first stop was the hospital pharmacy. Arthur was still fighting off a stubborn, lingering cold, and his fever had spiked again the previous night. The harsh fluorescent lights of the pharmacy made her headache throb as she handed over the prescription slip.

"That will be one hundred and thirty dollars," the cashier stated, tapping the screen of the register.

Valerie pulled out her phone. "I will take care of it with PayPal," she said, pulling up the app.

Her phone buzzed, processing the transaction. A notification popped up with her updated bank balance. She stared at the screen, her heart sinking. The number was perilously close to zero. She let out a long, quiet breath, slipping the phone back into her pocket. The reality of single motherhood was a constant, exhausting drain. Money slipped through her fingers like sand, disappearing into medical bills, groceries, and childcare.

Carrying the small plastic bag of medicine, she walked out to her beloved white Porsche Cayenne. The low fuel light was glaring on the dashboard.

She pulled into a brightly lit gas station on the edge of town, facing a miserable choice. The sensitive engine of the luxury SUV required premium 95-octane fuel to run properly. She stared at the price per gallon glowing on the digital sign. Her budget was stretched far too thin to afford a full tank of premium.

Gritting her teeth, she lifted the nozzle for the cheaper, lower-grade 92-octane gas.

The station attendant, a young guy in a grease-stained uniform, stepped out of the booth and walked over. "Ma'am, are you sure about that? A car like this really requires 95. The engine won't like the cheap stuff."

Valerie felt a hot flush of embarrassment climb her neck. She forced a casual smile. "Yeah, the 92 is fine for today. It will be okay."

The attendant gave a nonchalant shrug. "Alright, your funeral," he muttered, walking back to his booth.

She pumped just enough to get her through the rest of the week, the digits on the pump spinning far too fast. After screwing the gas cap shut, she slid behind the steering wheel and fired up the engine. She needed to get home to Arthur before the rush-hour traffic locked the city down.

She merged onto Copperline Road, heading toward the quieter suburbs. For the first few miles, everything seemed fine. Then, the car began to grumble. It was a low, ominous sound vibrating up through the floorboards.

Valerie tightened her grip on the leather steering wheel. "Easy, buddy. Economy mode today. We are on a strict budget," she whispered, patting the dashboard as if coaxing a stubborn horse. "Do not worry about the 92 octane, okay? Just get us home."

The car did not listen. The grumbling escalated into a violent, mechanical shudder. The engine sputtered, choking on the lower-grade fuel. A harsh, grinding noise echoed in the cabin, followed by the acrid, heavy stench of burning oil flooding through the air vents.

Her stomach plummeted. She wrestled the heavy steering wheel, fighting to pull the dying vehicle over to the dark, deserted shoulder of the road. The dashboard lit up with a dozen red warning symbols, and then, with one final, agonizing choke, the engine died completely.

Valerie sat in the sudden, eerie silence of the car, the hazard lights clicking rhythmically in the gloom. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, fighting the urge to scream. Her day had gone from a nightmare to a total disaster.

She stepped out into the cold night air, wrapping her thin coat tighter around her shoulders. The road was empty, flanked by dense, shadowy trees. She popped the hood, coughing as a thin plume of dark smoke wafted out. She knew absolutely nothing about fixing engines.

Squinting down the dark street, she prayed for a passing car. Finally, a pair of bright LED headlights crested the hill, cutting through the darkness. Her face lit up with a desperate flash of hope. She stepped closer to the edge of the asphalt and waved her arms wildly, signaling for help.

The sleek, black luxury sedan slowed down, its tires crunching on the gravel shoulder as it pulled to a stop just behind her broken-down Porsche.

Her relief lasted only a fraction of a second.

The driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the glow of the taillights. The sharp, tailored lines of his dark suit and the confident, measured way he walked were unmistakable. Her hopeful smile vanished instantly.

Desmond approached her, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He looked at her standing in the freezing wind, then at the smoking hood of her car.

"Looks like you need some help," he said. His tone was deceptively light, almost conversational, but his dark gaze was serious and unreadable.

Valerie straightened her spine, her pride flaring up like a shield. She tightened her jaw. "I have it under control," she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the dead engine. "Is that right? Car giving you trouble?"

"I was just stopping to get some fresh air," she lied smoothly, giving a nonchalant shrug.

Right on cue, the Porsche let out a loud, pathetic mechanical hiss, a puff of foul-smelling smoke rising from the radiator.

Desmond let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He gestured for her to step out of the way. "Move over."

Valerie watched in stunned silence as he walked straight to the front of her car. He didn't bother taking off his expensive suit jacket. He reached right into the ruined, smoking engine, checking the belts and the oil cap.

A few moments later, he pulled his hands out. His long fingers were coated in thick, black, filthy grease. He grabbed a rag from the trunk, wiping his hands, his expression shifting into something grave and deeply disappointed. He slammed the hood shut with a heavy thud that made her jump.

"Valerie," he called out, his voice sharp and commanding in the quiet night.

She stood her ground. "Yeah?"

"How did you let this happen?" he scolded, stepping closer to her. "Your engine is a wreck. Do you even bother to maintain it?"

She pressed her lips together. She wasn't about to admit to pumping cheap gas because she couldn't afford a full tank.

"You have let this car slide ever since we split," Desmond continued, his tone laced with heavy disapproval. "I used to handle all the upkeep. I made sure it was serviced. But now it is all on you, and look at it."

Valerie’s fingers twitched with immense, silent irritation. She dug her nails into her palms. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to yell that the crushing, physically exhausting financial weight of single motherhood left her with nothing to spare. She couldn't afford oil changes or premium gas when she had to buy baby formula, diapers, and fever medicine.

But she swallowed the bitter truth, burying it deep. "I am well aware, Desmond. I have just been busy."

Desmond studied the tired lines on her face. He let out a harsh sigh. "Well, you are in my car for the time being. Yours is out of commission. I will get a tow truck out here to haul it to the junkyard."

Valerie had no energy left to argue. She abandoned her ruined, beloved car on the shoulder and walked toward his passenger door.

The inside of his car was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of his signature cedar and bergamot cologne. Valerie leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, refusing to look at him as he pulled back onto the main road.

"Ivywood Estates is quite a diversion from Copperline Road," Desmond remarked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "What took you out there?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. "I caught a cold. I needed to stop by the hospital pharmacy."

He frowned, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. "A cold?"

"Just drop me off anywhere close to my neighborhood," she deflected quickly. "I can manage the rest on foot."

Instead of answering, Desmond flicked his turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour pharmacy. He put the car in park and stepped out into the cold without a word.

Valerie sat in the passenger seat, confused and anxious. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a rush of cold air hit her. Desmond dropped a plastic bag into her lap.

She looked inside. It was stocked with premium cold medicine, a digital thermometer, and a soft, electric heating pad. It was a bittersweet, painfully tender echo of the care he used to show her when they were married. A lump formed in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Desmond put the car in drive. "It is getting cold out. Stay warm. You are always catching colds."

The unexpected kindness made her chest ache. She needed to break the fragile, nostalgic peace before it broke her resolve. She needed to remind herself of the reality standing between them.

"You are still playing the field, even though Camilla is in the picture now?" she pressed aggressively, turning to glare at him.

The very name tasted like bitter ash on her tongue. Camilla was his ex, the woman whose constant depressive episodes and needy phone calls had ruined their marriage. Camilla had always stepped over the line, and Desmond had always let her.

Desmond shot her a surprised look in the dim light of the cabin. "Camilla?"

"That is her name, isn't it?" Valerie pushed harder, her voice sharp. "She was your ex, and now she is set to be your wife. That is the big engagement plan."

Desmond ignored her accusation. He hit the brakes at a red light and turned to face her fully, his dark eyes searching hers intensely in the dim light of the car.

"Aren't you even slightly jealous, Valerie?" he demanded, his voice dropping low, thick with emotion.

She forced a cold, defensive smirk onto her face. "Jealous? Why would I have any reason to be?"

Desmond stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. His jaw locked. His hand dropped to the steering wheel, his fingers curling into a white-knuckled fist.

"Right," he said, the word dripping with bitterness. "You don't love me. Not anymore."

A profound, suffocatingly heavy silence enveloped the cabin. Neither of them spoke as the car ate up the miles toward her neighborhood. Love meant nothing now. Reconciliation was impossible.

Desmond pulled up smoothly to the curb near Ivywood Estates. He put the car in park and stared straight ahead through the windshield. He let out a deep, defeated breath, the sound ringing with absolute finality.

"Take care of yourself," he said, his voice stripped of all warmth. "We are through here. I won't be around to look out for you anymore."

Valerie swallowed the sharp pain in her throat. She nodded stiffly. "You too, Desmond. I hope things work out with your fiancée."

She opened the door and stepped out into the freezing night, shutting the door behind her and walking away without a single glance back.

Valerie tiptoed into her quiet, lonely home. She locked the deadbolt and leaned against the door for a moment, letting the exhaustion wash over her bones.

She walked softly down the hallway and pushed open the door to the nursery. The room was dark, save for the soft yellow glow of a small nightlight.

Arthur was asleep in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling with steady, gentle snores. Valerie leaned over the wooden railing, brushing a soft curl of hair away from his warm forehead.

Her heart ached as she looked at his face. Even at this age, Arthur was a miniature, heartbreaking reflection of his father. He had Desmond’s dark hair, his strong jawline, and the same stubborn curve of his lips. He was the child of a man she was now utterly determined to shield him from forever. Desmond was moving on. He was going to start a shiny, perfect new family with his new wife, and he would never know about the son he left behind.

"I am sorry I don't make much money, buddy," she whispered into the dark, her voice trembling.

She leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead. She fiercely vowed to be his unbreakable rock. She would give him the world, even if she had to tear herself apart to do it.

The next morning was a harsh awakening to her new reality. Without her car, Valerie was forced to navigate the sprawling city subway system for the first time. The underground station was packed, loud, and smelled of damp concrete and old coffee. She squeezed onto a crowded train car, gripping an overhead rail as the train jolted forward.

She had spent years zipping through Oakhaven in luxury vehicles, shielded from the daily grind. Now, sheer financial dread consumed her entirely. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, she pulled up her banking app again. The numbers were terrifying. A massive property fee notification flashed across the top of her screen, followed by an impending heating bill. Her balance sat at a scant thousand dollars.

She arrived at the media office, her feet aching from the unfamiliar commute. The bullpen was loud and energetic.

"Valerie, payday is here!" Garrett yelled from across the room, waving a slip of paper.

She logged into her portal, pulling up her digital pay stub. Instead of relief, a cold sinking feeling hit her stomach. The bold numbers on the screen read: $2,500.

She stared at it, her vision blurring. Her normal salary was two thousand and eight hundred dollars.

Gemma, a senior editor, stopped by her desk and gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You have been missing a bunch of days to take care of your son, Val. And you have been clocking in late. Management docked your attendance bonus."

Valerie flushed. She couldn't argue. Her frequent, unavoidable absences to care for Arthur were actively destroying her livelihood. She couldn't afford a full-time nanny, and her son was too young for standard daycare. She had been working three days and taking four off, relying on friends and neighbors to watch him. The fragile system was falling apart.

Receiving a docked paycheck finally broke her spirit. A standard corporate job, with its rigid hours and merciless attendance policies, would never sustain them. The desperate seed of starting her own business finally took root in her mind. She needed to control her own time and build her own wealth.

By the end of the shift, Valerie was pushed absolutely to her physical and emotional limit. She sat in her cubicle long after the rest of the floor had cleared out. The overhead lights hummed loudly in the quiet office.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the very bottom of her contacts. She hovered her thumb over a number she hadn't touched in years. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. Taking a shaky breath, she pressed call.

The line rang three times before it clicked open.

"Hey, Mommy," Valerie breathed, her voice cracking heavily with suppressed tears and desperation.

"Valerie?" her estranged mother, Sylvia, answered. The older woman's voice was sharp, laced with obvious surprise.

Tears glistened hotly in Valerie's eyes, blurring the glowing screen of her computer monitor. She swallowed the massive lump of humiliation in her throat.

"Mommy, I'm wondering—"

Her desperate, humiliating plea hung in the quiet air of the office. Before she could force the rest of the words out, she was abruptly and brutally cut short by the piercing, demanding wail of a child in the background.