Carrying My Ex’s Secret

At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, my water broke without warning at a dinner party.

The chaos was immediate, but a pair of strong arms sliced through it, sweeping me off my feet. When I looked up into his face, my heart hammered against my ribs.

My rescuer was none other than Pierce Montgomery—the ex-boyfriend I'd broken up with eight months ago.

God, you have to be kidding me. Why him? The baby I was carrying was his.

Then, a terrible thought sliced through the panic: I didn't want this child to be born. Not anymore.

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1

I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance with my mother, Eleanor Ashford, and my sister, Olivia, at my side.

I had been chatting with a client at the dinner party when I felt a sudden, warm gush down my leg.

Olivia sprang into action, helping me lie down and propping my hips up with a velvet cushion.

By then, my gown was soaked. As for my husband… I didn’t have one. I was single, and very, very pregnant.

And the man beside me now, the one I’d just been so dramatically reunited with, was the father of my child. My ex. If I'd known this would happen, I would have pleaded with the baby not to be in such a hurry. Thirty-eight weeks was too soon.

As soon as we reached the hospital, the ultrasound results were in: the baby was in a breech position, with dangerously low amniotic fluid. The fetal heart monitor showed signs of distress, with a high risk of asphyxiation.

The doctor ordered an emergency C-section. On the gurney ride to the operating room, Pierce Montgomery held my hand in a vise grip. He leaned in, his voice a low hiss in my ear. "Willow Ashford, it's only been eight months."

"Don't..." I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. "Just... don't."

He let out a cold laugh, the sound chilling me to the bone. "You have no idea how badly I want to know who the hell this baby's father is."

When I had ended things, I was already a month pregnant. But I just couldn't bring myself to abort this child, especially not when this child was ours—mine and Pierce's.

Words failed me.

Let him misunderstand. How could I possibly begin to explain any of this? If he asked why I’d kept the baby, I’d have no answer for that either.

Any other ex might have offered comfort, but Pierce seemed intent on flaying me alive with his words. We didn't speak again during the tense pre-op preparations. Even the medical staff could sense the tension between us, thick enough to cut with a scalpel.

Being with Pierce had been a beautiful accident. During my junior year, an anonymous online design forum became all the rage in our circle. I, like so many others, was a devoted fan of a legendary designer known only as "Archangel," studying his posts and hoping for a crumb of guidance. To my shock, he actually replied to me.

He critiqued my portfolio, helped me overcome my technical hurdles, and even defended me from anonymous trolls on the forum.

One day, Archangel sent me a private message: "Maybe we should meet. I'm in New York, too."

I paced my dorm room for a full half hour, hesitating. In the end, my roommates snatched my phone and typed back, "Sure!"

My roommate Monica gushed, "God, the way he writes is so intense, Willow. I bet he's devastatingly handsome. The kind that makes your knees go weak!"

Another roommate, Pansy, added, "I think so too! If you're worried about it being a setup, we can tail you, just in case."

And so, I half-reluctantly agreed to meet Archangel at a coffee shop near campus. When Monica, Pansy, and I arrived, we all froze. It was Pierce. He was sitting at a table by the window, sipping coffee and gazing out at the street, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

Pierce was a graduate student in Columbia's architecture department—a certified genius and notoriously unapproachable. Rumor was, from his undergrad to his graduate years, he'd never once been in a relationship.

This Pierce Montgomery, a man who'd supposedly never dated anyone, was the guru from my forum!

Pansy gave me a shove from behind and a thumbs-up. I stumbled toward his table. "Uh... Pierce? Are you Archangel?"

"I am. Are you Willow?"

"Yes."

The legendary, untouchable campus heartthrob was sitting right across from me. We talked about design, about our classes. I felt like I was in a job interview—my back ramrod straight, my ankles crossed, barely daring to breathe.

It was a great conversation. As I got up to leave, Pierce suddenly called my name.