My Fiancé Funded His Pregnant Teacher With Company Money

I parked two blocks away from Lane's office building. I don't know why. Maybe some part of me already knew I'd want distance between my car and whatever I was about to find.

The lobby was empty. Security knew me. They nodded when I walked past. The elevator ride up felt longer than usual. I counted the floors. Watched the numbers light up one by one.

Lane's office was at the end of the hall. The door was closed but not locked. I could see light underneath.

I put my hand on the handle. Stopped. Listened.

A woman's voice. Soft. Laughing at something.

Then Lane: "Better?"

"Mmm. You're so good to me."

I pushed the door open.

Lane was on his knees. That was the first thing I saw. He was kneeling on the floor in his dress shirt and slacks, and he had his hands wrapped around a woman's bare foot. A pregnant woman. Very pregnant. She was leaning back in his chair—the leather one I'd helped him pick out when we signed the lease—with her legs stretched out and her eyes half-closed.

She had dark hair pulled into a loose bun. A soft gray dress that draped over her belly. She looked comfortable. Like she'd been there before. Like she belonged.

Lane's thumbs pressed into her arch. He was completely focused on what he was doing. Gentle. Careful.

"Your feet are so swollen today," he murmured. "You need to rest more."

"I know," she said. "You keep telling me."

"Because you don't listen." His voice was warm. Teasing. The way he used to sound with me. Before everything became about targets and investor meetings and the next funding round.

"I listen," she said. "I just don't always obey."

He laughed. Actually laughed. Then he looked up at her with an expression I'd seen before. On the terrace of his parents' hotel. The night he proposed.

"You're the only woman I've ever really loved," he said quietly. "You know that, right?"

She smiled. Touched his hair.

That's when he saw me.

His hands went still. His face changed—surprise first, then something that looked like irritation. Not guilt. Not panic. Just annoyance. Like I'd walked in on a meeting I wasn't invited to.

"Nevaeh."

I didn't move. Couldn't. My brain was trying to process what I was seeing. Lane on his knees. The woman in his chair. The way her hand was still resting in his hair.

And then I saw it. On his desk. Right next to her elbow.

A small velvet box. Navy blue. Still closed.

The engagement ring.

The one he was supposed to give me at the party in two days.

It was just sitting there. Unopened. Like something he'd forgotten about. Or hadn't gotten around to yet. Or didn't matter enough to put somewhere safe.

The woman followed my gaze. She looked at the box. Then at Lane. Her expression didn't change. She didn't look surprised or guilty or uncomfortable. She looked like she already knew.

"Lane," she said softly. "You should probably—"

"I know." He stood up. Brushed off his knees. "Nevaeh, this isn't—"

I turned around.

"Nevaeh, wait—"

I walked out. Down the hall. Past the elevator because I couldn't stand the thought of waiting for it. I took the stairs. Four flights. My legs felt numb. My hands were shaking but I couldn't feel them.

I got to my car. Sat in the driver's seat. Stared at the steering wheel.

I didn't cry. I thought I would. I thought I'd break down right there in the parking lot. But nothing came. Just this cold, empty feeling spreading through my chest.

I drove home on autopilot. Parked in my building's garage. Took the elevator up to my apartment. Unlocked the door. Dropped my keys on the counter.

Then I opened my laptop.

I logged into the financial system. Pulled up every account I had access to. Started building a spreadsheet.

Kataleya Mendez. $20,000 per month. Going back three years. Different labels every time: consulting, wellness, project fees. But always the same amount. Always to her.

I added it up. Column by column. Payment by payment.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Money that came from the company Lane and I built together. Money I'd helped secure. Investors I'd introduced him to. Contracts I'd negotiated using connections I wasn't supposed to use.

I worked through the night. Didn't stop. Didn't eat. Just built the picture piece by piece until I could see the whole thing.

By the time the sun came up, I had a complete forensic dossier. Dates. Amounts. Account numbers. Everything.

But I needed one more thing. One final confirmation.

I needed to know what Lane would choose when it cost him nothing to choose me.

I picked up my phone. Typed out a message.

*I've been in a car accident. They're taking me to the ER. Please come.*

I stared at it for a long time. Then I hit send.

And I waited.