Pregnant By My Enemy's Fiancé

I should’ve known. Honestly, I should’ve known.

The universe always has this way of slapping me in the face right when I’m feeling too damn happy. Like today, when I was practically skipping through JFK with a carry-on stuffed full of overpriced Parisian lingerie and dreams of straddling my boyfriend the second I walked through the door.

I haven’t seen Monty in a week, and I spent half that time pretending the Eiffel Tower was only half as thrilling as being in his arms. Pathetic, I know. But love makes you delusional. It makes you blind. And apparently, it also makes you stupid.

Staring at myself in the elevator mirror as it climbs to our penthouse floor—my penthouse floor, technically. My blonde curls tousled just enough to look effortless (thanks to dry shampoo and airport humidity), red lipstick still intact despite the 8-hour flight, and under my basic brown coat? A sheer, baby pink lingerie set that screamed “rip this off with your teeth.”

I look good. Dangerous. Like the heroine in a dark romance movie.

Except this wasn’t a damn romance, it’s my pathetic life.

Monty hasn’t picked up any of my three calls since I landed. But I’m not worried—he probably left his phone charging, the forgetful idiot. Or maybe my assistant Callie told him I was coming home early? She’s sweet but she has a mouth like a leaky faucet and zero concept of a surprise. I make a mental note to give her a little scolding later. Like threatening to replace her with ChatGPT, which is impossible because she’s also my best friend.

The elevator dings, and my heart flutters. Clutching the handle of my suitcase, I picture him running toward me in slow motion like some kind of cheesy Hallmark movie; me, in his arms, both of us laughing and kissing and forgetting that the world outside existed.

I step out.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. No music, no TV, just... silence. Except-

There’s a half-empty bottle of my favorite champagne on the kitchen counter. The expensive one he always complains is too “fruity” for him.

I freeze, staring at it. The glasses beside it are still damp with condensation.

Maybe he does know I’m home. Maybe this is the start of some romantic welcome-back surprise.

I smile, stupidly, hopelessly, and set my bag down next to the door. “Monty?” I call out.

And then I hear it.

A moan. Loud. Guttural. Definitely not from someone who’s watching TV.

I blink. My heart stops.

Maybe he’s, like, watching something... adult. Or having a very passionate conversation with Siri? Or—God, please no, maybe he’s just giving himself a little self-love? That’d be embarrassing, but not devastating. Right?

Another moan. This one... higher-pitched, definitely female. And loud. Very loud.

Louder than the time I accidentally stepped on Callie’s foot wearing my precious So Kate.

I tiptoe toward the hallway. The sound is coming from our bedroom.

A pink lace bra is hanging off the doorknob.

And not my pink lace bra. This one is neon-bright, way too small, and looks like it was bought from the clearance bin of a stripper convention. I mentally gag. The fashion choice alone deserves jail time.

My brain goes quiet. Like… horrifyingly silent. Just static and dread.

And then I hear it again—another moan, this one high-pitched, breathy, and drawn-out like some bad porno.

I don’t know how my legs move. I don’t even feel them as I walk toward my own bedroom. The door’s half open. I push it the rest of the way. And that’s when I see it.

His hairy ass.

Literally.

Just… there. Jiggling.

On my actual, literal, real-life bed. The one I paid for, that my grandma left me money to buy after she died. That mattress still had the tags on it from when I bought Egyptian cotton sheets last month.

And Monty is on top of some red-haired skank, going at it like this was a damn audition for a low-budget p**n.

There’s a brutal, piercing silence that lasts for maybe two seconds before I let out this weird, guttural sound that doesn’t even feel like it comes from me.

“Monty?”

He yelps. She gasps. I stare, frozen.

“CHARLOTTE?!”

I blink once. Twice. My mouth opens, but words won’t come.

Has his butt always been this hairy?

That’s the first coherent thought I have.

He jumps and scrambles off her, like a scared raccoon caught digging through garbage. Which, to be fair, is exactly what he is.

The woman squeals, scrambling to cover her boobs with a pillow like modesty suddenly matters now.

I take a step back. “Are you fucking serious right now?!”

“Char-Charlotte! I-I-I didn’t know you were coming home”

“OBVIOUSLY.”

I’m shaking. My hands, my voice, even my knees. I’ve never understood that phrase until now, but I’m pretty sure they’re about to give out.

“Baby, listen, this isn’t what it looks like.”

She’s still splayed out on my damn Egyptian cotton, smirking like she just won something.

“Oh really? So what does it look like?” I snap, grabbing the nearest object, which happens to be a lilac throw pillow, and chucking it at his face.

It lands with a satisfying thump.

The girl, all smug and tangled in my sheets, lifts an eyebrow. “Who’s she?”

Oh. Hell. No.

“I’m the woman who pays the fucking rent!” I scream, grabbing the half-empty champagne bottle and hurling it at the wall. It explodes. Not sorry.

“Babe, calm down.” he stammers, pants around his ankles, trying to waddle toward me.

“Don’t you babe me, you cheating, lying, limp-dick piece of human garbage.” I’m full-on sobbing now, mascara streaking down my face. “And you!” I whirl toward her, pointing. “What kind of basic-ass, rainbow ass bra wearing, homewrecking tramp sleeps with someone else's man unprotected?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, climbing out of bed like this is just a mild inconvenience. “He said you were taking a break. And clearly, you’re not satisfying him if he had to come to me.”

Something inside me snaps.

I lunge.

He grabs me, barely stopping me from clawing her eyes out. I scream like a banshee and throw more shit. My jewelry tray. A lamp. A framed picture of us at my birthday dinner—which, fun fact, I paid for.

Security shows up because apparently my neighbors called the front desk about “disturbing sounds.”

The guards gape at the scene. I’m sobbing and throwing things, he’s still half-naked and trying to explain, and she’s got the audacity to fix her hair like she’s on a reality show.

“Get them out,” I snap, my voice low and deadly. “Out of my apartment, before I bloody kill someone.”

They’re escorted out half-dressed, half-yelling, and fully ashamed.

I slam the door behind them, lock it, and slide to the floor, shaking.

Then I call my best friend/assistant, Callie.

“Get dressed,” I whisper into the phone, barely able to breathe. “We’re going to the bar. I need to drink until I forget I ever loved a man.”