The CEO's Runaway Pregnant Architect

Allison Knapp POV: My internal clock went off at six, as it always did. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The custom light fixture, a swirling galaxy of fiber optics I had designed to mimic the constellations, offered no comfort. It was just another cold, beautiful thing in a cold, beautiful house. My hand moved on its own, a ghost of a five-year habit, reaching for the other side of the king-sized bed. My fingers met nothing but the frigid, empty expanse of the high-thread-count sheets. I held them there for a second, feeling the chill seep into my skin, then curled them into a fist and pulled my arm back to my side. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet press against the Italian marble floor. The shock of cold shot straight up my spine, a welcome, grounding pain. I didn't look for the slippers Jayson always left for me. The floor-to-ceiling window spanned the entire eastern wall, and I walked toward it, a silent observer in my own life. Below, New York was stirring, the first rays of dawn catching the steel and glass of the skyline. This city had been my dream, the canvas for my ambition. Now it just felt like the gilded cage Jayson had built around me. I began to walk through the penthouse, not as its resident, but as a critic reviewing a finished project. My footsteps were silent on the polished floors. The open-plan living room was a masterpiece of form over function. Perfect for the magazine spreads Jayson loved, but a nightmare for privacy. "A showroom," I murmured to the empty space. "A place for parties, not a home." My gaze swept over the details, each one a monument to my own erasure. The kitchen island, raised two inches higher than standard to accommodate his six-foot-three frame. The walk-in closet by the entrance, with custom shelving deep enough for his collection of size-thirteen limited-edition sneakers. The built-in beverage station by his study, calibrated to keep his imported tea at a precise ninety-two degrees Celsius for late-night work sessions. Every detail was for him. There was no space left for me. I entered our cavernous walk-in closet. His suits, shirts, and shoes took up eighty percent of the real estate, a meticulously organized army of designer labels. My own section was a small, apologetic corner. I didn't spare his side a glance. I pulled a sleek, black 28-inch suitcase from the overhead storage, its wheels silent on the plush carpet. My movements were efficient, devoid of sentiment. I packed only the basics: a few pairs of jeans, some simple sweaters, a black dress. All items I had bought with my own money. The couture gowns and diamond jewelry he'd gifted me over the years remained untouched in their velvet boxes. They were costumes for a role I was no longer playing. On my vanity, propped against a perfume bottle, was a note he’d left before his flight. Cursive, arrogant, and rushed. "Wait for me, my chief designer." I picked up the heavy cardstock, read the words that once would have made my heart flutter, and felt nothing. I dropped it into the wastebasket, where it landed softly on a bed of used cotton pads. My phone vibrated on the marble countertop. A weather alert. Not a single message from Jayson. He was a ghost when a project consumed him, and I was expected to understand. I always had. The last stop was the study. Our books coexisted on the built-in shelves, a silent testament to our partnership. His business tomes and biographies on one side, my architectural theory and history on the other. I pulled out three of my most treasured volumes—first editions, impossible to replace, milestones in my own intellectual journey. As my fingers grazed the spine of a book on Brutalism, they brushed against a tiny, almost imperceptible indentation in the wood paneling behind it. I froze. It was the release for a hidden compartment I had designed myself. A place, Jayson had said, for our "shared memories," our most important original blueprints. A flicker of hesitation. I had no interest in memories. But a cold curiosity took hold. I pressed the spot. With a faint pneumatic hiss, a section of the bookshelf slid silently inward, revealing a dark cavity the size of a small safe. There were no rolled-up blueprints inside. Just a single, deep-blue velvet box I had never seen before. My brow furrowed. Jayson had never told me he’d put anything else in here. I lifted the box. It was heavier than it looked, solid and unmarked. With a sense of clinical detachment, I opened the lid. It wasn't jewelry. It wasn't a watch. My breath caught in my throat.