Chapter 3

"I'm not going!"

I fought against his grip, but my body was already wrecked. I was no match for him.

He dragged me to Sophie by the wrist. It felt like my bones would snap.

Sophie looked at me, eyes glistening.

"Claire, don't blame Ryan. I just lost my footing."

"That permanent keycard should've been yours all along. I shouldn't have taken it. I shouldn't have made you feel like I was taking your place."

With every sentence she spoke, Ryan's expression grew colder.

He squeezed my wrist tighter.

"Apologize."

My face was white with pain.

People around us were staring.

Finally, I heard my own voice—dry, hollow.

"I'm sorry."

Sophie grabbed my hand immediately, smiling with that effortless grace of hers.

"We've known each other twelve years. How could I blame you?"

"As long as you and Ryan don't fight because of me, I don't mind getting a little hurt."

Only then did Ryan let go, satisfied.

In that moment, his eyes held a flicker of certainty.

Like he'd just confirmed that no matter how hard I pushed back, I'd always fold. Just like every time before.

I pulled my hand away, fighting the wave of nausea, and turned to leave.

Ryan followed a couple of steps.

"Alright, I'll drive you home—"

A weak moan from behind him.

"Ryan, my head really hurts…"

Ryan stopped mid-stride and turned back without hesitation.

"Soph, what's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

He didn't even glance at me. Just tossed the words over his shoulder:

"Claire, go talk to the property office and get a new guest pass."

"Once Soph's feeling better, I'll come find you."

I almost laughed.

He still didn't know.

I was done wanting that keycard.

And I was done wanting him.

My phone lit up. Test results were in.

The blood work showed pregnancy.

A follow-up early ultrasound confirmed it. Approximately six weeks.

The doctor's voice was gentle.

"The results are consistent with roughly six weeks of pregnancy."

She paused.

"Is there anyone you'd like us to contact?"

Through the half-open door, I heard a nurse call out:

"Sophie Reed? You can come in for your exam now. Your partner is welcome to join you."

Sophie looked up at Ryan.

He didn't correct the word partner. Just followed her inside.

I pressed my hand to my stomach and fought the sting behind my eyes.

"No."

"There's no one to notify."

On my third day back at the office, the usual chatter died the second I walked in.

I was a senior project manager at a consulting firm here in Chicago. Sophie and I were on the same team—and we'd been competing for the same promotion.

Six months ago, a client I'd worked with for years relocated to a consulting firm in Seattle.

Before he left, he'd asked me once if I wanted to follow.

I turned him down.

All he said was: "If you ever want to leave, call me."

I never thought I'd remember those words six months later.

My coworkers were whispering, throwing me uneasy glances.

I pulled aside my closest colleague.

"What happened?"

She hesitated, then handed me her phone.

In the company system, the client proposal I'd spent three months building—the one I'd sweated over—was now submitted under Sophie's name.

The system log showed her upload timestamp was earlier than mine.

My version, submitted after hers, looked like the copy.

HR had already sent the notice:

Pending the internal investigation, I was placed on paid administrative leave.

My blood went cold.

That proposal had been saved on my personal laptop. Never officially submitted.

The only person who knew my password was Ryan.

I looked up. He was walking Sophie out of the HR conference room.

I charged at him and shoved him.

"Why does she have my proposal?!"