Two weeks ago, I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. Groaning, I reached for it, squinting at the screen to see Zyla's name flashing. I answered, barely awake, only to be greeted by her loud, panicked voice.
"You're having a baby with Dean Keller?! Like, the richest—and sleaziest—guy ever?" she exclaimed.
"What? Who told you that?" I mumbled, still trying to convince myself this wasn't a dream as I sat up in bed.
"It's all over the internet! Your face and your belly are everywhere. There's a picture of you and Dean Keller walking into an ultrasound clinic! Oh my God, he looks like he's in love with you! Are you guys dating? You do know he has a fiancée, right?"
Her words came rapid-fire, like bullets I wasn't prepared to dodge.
"Zyla, those pictures weren't supposed to be leaked," I said, my voice thick with disbelief. "Listen, I'll come over to Mom's later, okay? We'll talk about everything then."
"You better. I can't believe you didn't tell me!" she huffed, her tone laced with betrayal.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I'll explain everything later."
I was about to hang up when Zyla spoke again, her voice softer but more insistent.
"Wait! Before you head to Mom's, pack a bag and plan to stay for a while. The media is going to find your apartment next. You know how relentless they are. It's better if you're somewhere safe."
She had a point, but my stubbornness flared. I'd convinced myself I could handle this on my own, that I didn't need to uproot my life.
"I'll think about it. Bye, Zyla," I said, hanging up before she could argue further.
Just as I set my phone down, it buzzed again. A text from Dean.
Dean: Go stay with your mother.
The message was short and commanding, lacking the warmth he'd tried to infuse into his words in the past. He didn't even bother with a "please" this time.
It was the second nudge I needed. Sighing, I packed a bag and headed out, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But as soon as I stepped outside my apartment building, a man with a camera and a recorder approached me.
"Ms. Davis, I'm with Public Entertainment. Can I ask you a few questions?"
"No, thank you," I said quickly, walking faster.
"How far along are you? Did Dean Keller cheat on Vanessa Whitmore with you?" he pressed, his questions slicing through my already frayed nerves.
I stopped, spun around, and pointed a finger at him. "If you ask me one more question, I'll call the police. This is private property."
He smirked but raised his hands in mock surrender, backing off just enough to let me escape. My heart raced as I hurried to my car, checking over my shoulder the entire way.
When I finally arrived at my mom's house, she opened the door and pulled me into a tight hug.
"Are you okay? Did anyone come to your apartment?" she asked, her eyes scanning my face with concern.
"I'm fine. There was only one reporter, and I managed it," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
Her hands lingered on my shoulders as she studied me, her brows furrowing. "You look so tired, Ry. Come inside. Let me take care of you for a little while."
I followed her into the kitchen, where she immediately set about making tea. The familiarity of her movements—the way she reached for the sugar, the quiet clink of the spoon against the cup—was a comfort I didn't realize I needed.
"I still can't believe the father of your baby is Dean Keller," she said as she placed the tea in front of me. "Has he been helping at all?"
I nodded, a small smile forming as I thought about him. "He has. At first, I didn't even tell him, but since he found out, he's been... involved. He's gone to appointments with me and even calls at night to check on me."
Her expression softened, but there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "And you're staying here now? From the bags, I assume that's the plan?"
"If that's okay," I said. "Both Zyla and Dean insisted. Right now, the babies and I are a PR nightmare for him."
"Babies?" she asked, her voice rising with surprise. "You're having more than one?"
I nodded, unable to hide my small smile. "It's twins. One's a boy, and we're keeping the other baby's gender a surprise."
Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes brimmed with tears. "Twins?" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. She reached across the table, taking my hands in hers. "Oh, my sweet girl... you're going to be such an amazing mother. Two grandbabies at once. I can't believe it."
Her tears spilled over, and I found my own eyes stinging. I hadn't realized how much I'd needed her reassurance until that moment.
"I was worried about telling you," I admitted quietly. "I didn't want to overwhelm you."
She shook her head, squeezing my hands tightly. "Ivory, nothing about this overwhelms me. If anything, I'm overwhelmed with joy. You're my baby, and now you're having babies of your own. I just want to help you however I can."
Her words unraveled something in me, and I felt a weight lift off my chest. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was carrying the world on my shoulders.
The weeks passed, and I stayed with my mom, but Dean was nowhere to be found. I sent him my mother's address, even asked him to visit, but he didn't respond. Even when his statement on our relationship was released, I texted him.
The statement saying I was a one night stand that turned his world around in the best way possible. It didn't feel like him. I wanted to talk to him about it, but received silence in return.
The silence hurt more than I'd prepared for.
Then, one morning, I scrolled through my phone and froze. A new article had been published:
"Ivory Davis: Dean Keller's New Toy? What We Know."
The piece was filled with lies—claims that I was a drug addict, that I'd trapped Dean with the pregnancy, that I was only after his money. My high school yearbook photo stared back at me, twisted into the image of someone I didn't even recognize.
I threw my phone onto the table, tears spilling down my cheeks. The pressure, the lies, Dean's absence—it was too much.
I'd convinced myself I could handle this, but now I wasn't so sure.
——-
Dean POV
I sat in my office, the amber liquid in my glass doing little to quiet the storm raging in my mind. It had been days since I'd last seen Ivory, days since I'd told her to go to her mother's. I told myself it was for her safety, that space would shield her and the twins from the fallout of the leaked photos.
But I couldn't shake the memory of her face when I left, the way her eyes lingered on me, almost like she wanted me to stay.
The buzz of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen. A message from Weston.
Weston: We need to talk. I'm coming over.
I didn't bother replying. He'd come whether I wanted him to or not. That was Weston—a man who never took no for an answer, especially when it came to something he deemed important.
Less than an hour later, my office door swung open without so much as a knock. Weston strode in, a manila folder in his hand, his expression sharper than usual.
"She looks like hell," he said bluntly, dropping the folder onto my desk.
I raised a brow, annoyed at his lack of tact. "Who does?"
Weston didn't bother answering. Instead, he opened the folder and slid a series of photos across the desk. My stomach twisted as I picked up the first one. It was Ivory, sitting on a porch swing outside her mother's house. Her head was in her hands, her shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was crushing her.
The next photo showed her in the driveway, her face streaked with tears. Another captured her in mid-step, looking tired, her eyes dull and lifeless.
"Where did you get these?" I asked, my voice tight.
"I've been keeping an eye on her. You asked me to make sure she was safe, didn't you?" Weston said, crossing his arms. "But safe doesn't mean happy, Dean. Look at her. She's falling apart."
I set the photos down, my jaw tightening. "She's tougher than she looks."
"Yeah, she is. But even tough people have limits," Weston shot back. "And you? You're supposed to be the guy in her corner, but instead, you've got her out there dealing with this mess alone. The media's tearing her apart, and she thinks you don't care."
I gripped the edge of my desk, the wood biting into my palms. "Of course I care. I just... I thought giving her space would help."
Weston scoffed, shaking his head. "Help? By letting her think you've abandoned her? By letting her cry herself to sleep every night?" He jabbed a finger at the photos. "You've been too busy playing the stoic martyr to see what this is doing to her. She's carrying your kid, man. If that doesn't wake you up, I don't know what will."
Guilt clawed at my chest, but Weston wasn't done.
"You spent months looking for her, Dean. Months. You were obsessed with finding her, convinced she was someone special. And now, you've got her, and you're acting like you couldn't care less. What the hell is wrong with you?"
The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. He was right—I had been desperate to find her, But now that I had, I was screwing it up. I'd convinced myself I was doing the right thing by staying away, but looking at these photos, I realized how wrong I'd been.
"What do you expect me to do, Weston?" I muttered, my voice low. "If I show up now, it'll just bring more attention to her."
"Figure it out," Weston snapped. "But don't wait too long. Ivory's obviously strong, but even she has to have her breaking point. And if you let her reach it, you'll lose her—and maybe your kid, too."
He pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the door, leaving me alone with the photos and the crushing weight of my mistakes.
I stared at the images for what felt like hours, the guilt gnawing at me. Ivory's tear-streaked face, the exhaustion in her posture—they were burned into my mind. Weston was right. She deserved better. And I had to be the one to give it to her.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, leaning back in my chair as I tried to push down the nagging guilt clawing at my chest. Weston didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't understand how complicated this was—how the wrong move could make everything worse for Ivory.
Before I could even attempt to refocus, there was a sharp knock on my office door, followed by Lauren stepping inside.
"Dean," she said, her expression tight and hesitant.
"What now?" I snapped, my patience long gone.
Instead of answering, she strode up to my desk and placed her phone in front of me. The screen was paused on a video, the banner beneath it reading "Exclusive: Vanessa Whitmore Speaks Out on Dean Keller's Scandal."
"Watch this," she said quietly, her tone unusually subdued.
I exhaled sharply, pressing play.
Vanessa's face filled the screen, her carefully styled hair and subtle makeup giving her the image of composed elegance. But it was her words that made my blood run cold.
"I can't say I'm entirely surprised," Vanessa said with a faint, practiced smile. "Dean is... impulsive, and sometimes that gets the better of him. But what really saddens me is how some people are willing to take advantage of his generosity and kindness. It's clear that this woman—Ivory, is it?—knew exactly what she was doing."
The reporter leaned in, their voice dripping with curiosity. "Are you suggesting that Ivory Davis intentionally got pregnant to manipulate Dean?"
Vanessa gave a small, sympathetic nod, her lips curving into a sad smile. "I can't speak to her motives, of course. But from what I've heard, she's been very persistent about making sure Dean is involved. I just hope Dean realizes what's truly important before it's too late."
The video ended, and I stared at the screen, the rage building with every second of silence.
"She gave this interview this morning," Lauren said, her voice carefully neutral. "It's already gaining traction, and people are running with it. She's painting Ivory as some kind of opportunist, and it's working. The narrative is turning against her."
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I pushed it back. My jaw tightened, and I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the room.
"That lying—" I cut myself off, taking a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm down.
"Dean," Lauren continued, stepping closer, "if you don't respond to this—publicly—Ivory is going to be left to deal with the fallout alone. The press is already tearing her apart. If you don't shut this down now, it's only going to get worse."
She was right. Damn it, she was right. But the idea of carefully crafting another PR statement, another sterile, impersonal message, made my stomach turn.
"No," I said firmly. "This isn't going to be handled with a statement. I'll deal with Vanessa myself."
Lauren looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it, stepping aside as I grabbed my jacket and stormed out of the office.
It didn't take long to find Vanessa. She was in her usual spot—a private lounge at one of her favorite upscale hotels. The moment I entered, she spotted me, her face lighting up with a smile that made my stomach churn.
"Dean," she said smoothly, standing to greet me. "I was just about to—"
"Save it," I interrupted, my voice cold. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of feigned confusion. "What do you mean?"
"That interview," I hissed, stepping closer. "You called Ivory manipulative. You implied she trapped me. Do you have any idea what kind of damage that's going to do to her?"
Vanessa's eyes narrowed, the mask slipping just a little. "Damage? She's the one who put herself in this position. I'm just stating the obvious, Dean. People deserve to know the truth."
"That wasn't the truth," I shot back, my voice rising. "That was you trying to get at me through an innocent woman. She doesn't deserve this, none of it."
Vanessa crossed her arms, her posture defiant. "And what about me, Dean? Do you think I deserve to have my name dragged through the mud because of her? I warned you."
"No one dragged your name through the mud," I said through gritted teeth. "You're going to be doing that all on your own."
For a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension crackling like electricity. Finally, Vanessa broke the silence, her voice icy.
"If you're so determined to protect her, then go ahead. But don't expect me to sit back and let her ruin everything we've built."
"There's no 'we,' Vanessa," I said, my tone final. "We aren't married. My fathers company doesn't need your fathers. Remember that."
I turned and walked out, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. Weston's words, Lauren's warning, and Vanessa's betrayal all swirled in my head.
I needed to take action—not for the PR team, not for my reputation, but for Ivory. She didn't deserve to fight this battle alone. And I wasn't going to let her.
It was time to make a public statement that was true. Which was how I really felt about Ivory.