Divorcing the Heiress? Bad Idea.

"I don't love you. I never did."

The words echoed in my skull, hollow and sharp.

My hand moved instinctively to my belly, six months swollen with the child—his child, OUR child—and suddenly the weight of it felt unbearable.

"Then what is this?" My voice cracked despite my efforts to stay calm. I gestured to my stomach, the physical evidence of what I'd believed was our future. "What is this baby, Evan?"

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and his lips curled into something cold and cruel. "A mistake."

Two words. Just two simple words, and my entire world collapsed.

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. My knees buckled, and I felt myself falling back onto the sofa.

Sarah's hands caught me, steadying me, her warm palms pressing against my shoulders.

"Mister!" Sarah's voice cut through the fog, sharp with indignation. "How dare you speak to your wife like this? She's six months pregnant, for God's sake!"

But I couldn't hear the rest. Her words faded into a distant buzz as my vision blurred, the room spinning around me.

A mistake.

Our baby—*my* baby—was a mistake.

The divorce papers slipped from my fingers, scattering across the carpet like fallen leaves.

Sarah was still talking, her voice rising with anger I couldn't process. Evan said something in return, his tone flat and dismissive. But I was no longer in that room. I was drowning, sinking into a sea of memories I'd cherished, now tainted and rotting.

It must sound funny, but truth is: I still remembered the first time I saw him. Clearly.

The memory rose unbidden, sharp and vivid despite my current state of shock. That was how much I loved him.

The Whitmore Foundation's annual scholarship gala, five years ago.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and champagne flutes, filled with donors congratulating themselves on their generosity.

I was twenty-one, fresh out of an argument with a childhood friend-foe of mine, Chris Vanderwall about who would give the better speech at our college debate competition.

I was angry, annoyed, impatient, and was in such a down mood that I needed air.

And then I saw *him*.

I suddenly felt I was able to breath again.

Evan Miller. He stood near the back of the room, slightly apart from the other scholarship recipients. His suit didn't fit quite right—the sleeves a touch too long, the shoulders not quite squared—but he wore it with a quiet dignity that made my heart stutter. When our eyes met across the crowd, something inside me shifted, clicked into place like a key turning in a lock.

I'd approached him that night with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no. "I'm Lia Whitmore," I'd said, extending my hand.

He'd taken it briefly, his grip firm but distant. "Evan Miller. Thank you—your family's scholarship, it's... it saved me."

I'd fallen in love right then, and my pursuit had begun that very night.

For five years, I pursued him with the relentless determination that came from a lifetime of getting what I wanted.

I confessed my feelings ninety-nine times—*ninety-nine*—across college campuses and coffee shops, at holiday parties and random Tuesday afternoons. I showed up at his dorm with homemade meals when I knew he was studying late. I bought him textbooks he couldn't afford, disguised as "extra copies" I didn't need. I learned his coffee order, his favorite authors, the way he absently rubbed his left temple when he was stressed.

And every time, he said no.

"I don't feel that way about you, Lia."

"We're from different worlds."

"I'm not ready for a relationship."

"You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

The excuses changed, but the answer never did.

There were moments when I wanted to give up, when the weight of rejection made it hard to breathe. I'd lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me. Why wasn't I enough?

But then I'd see him again—in the library, at a campus event, walking across the quad—and hope would surge back, fierce and irrational. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe if I just tried harder, loved him more, proved my devotion beyond any doubt, he would finally see me.

I'd been so wrong.

The memory of those vivid warm college days faded, and memory from New Year's Eve last year crashed over me with devastating clarity. That was when I thought I’d made a difference.

I'd gone to his tiny apartment with my usual armload of gifts—champagne, his favorite takeout, a leather-bound first edition of his favorite novel. It was confession number one hundred, and I'd been determined to make it count.

But when he opened the door, something was different. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. He looked at me like I was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

"Prove it," he'd whispered, tears streaming down his face. "Prove you love me."

I hadn't questioned it, hadn't wondered what had changed. I'd simply pulled him into my arms, and we'd spent the night tangled together in his narrow bed, his hands mapping my body like he was trying to memorize every curve, his mouth hot and desperate against mine.

The next morning, I'd lain beside him, watching the winter sunlight play across his sleeping face, and finally worked up the courage.

"So... Evan, what are we now?"

He'd stared at the ceiling for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then he'd turned to me with those dark eyes I'd loved for so long.

"Lia. Will you marry me?"