All Chapters of Pregnant By My Enemy's Fiancé: Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

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 heroin

He stops in front of our table, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he's trying to read me.He’s gorgeous. In that quiet, devastating kind of way. His jaw is sharp enough to write angry poetry about, dusted with the kind of stubble that makes you wonder what it’d feel like scraping down your inner thigh. His eyes are a cool, unreadable gray, like fog over cold water, but there's something warm in them too.He looks like the kind of man who ruins lives in novels and buys limited-edition watches for fun. Calm. Collected. Too composed to be anyone's rebound, and yet…All I can think is, Monty could never.Monty’s idea of “dressed up” was a button-down with pit stains and an ego that couldn’t fit through doorways. This guy? This guy looks like he owns a yacht he forgets about."Rough night?" he asks, voice smooth and deep, and oh my God. The accent. British. Like… actual British, not fake British like when Callie orders tea and says “cheerio” to the waiter.I blink up at him,

I wake up in a bed that is not mine.The bed beneath me is impossibly soft—like cloud-level soft—and the sheets smell like expensive detergent and man.The air smells like cologne, money, and a faint trace of regret.My lashes flutter open, and the ceiling above me is not the cracked one in my apartment with the water stain shaped like New Jersey (I have money for clothes, not for leaky roofs). This one is smooth, white, and lit by a sunbeam that really needs to dial it down.Then I turn my head.Oh.My.God.He’s lying there, half on his stomach, the covers kicked halfway off his very naked body, the morning sun slashing across his back and highlighting every line of his perfect, sculpted torso.And his face? Jesus. Even unconscious he looks like a cologne ad. Sharp jaw, dark lashes, slightly parted lips. I think there might be a little bit of drool on the pillow and somehow even that is attractive.And then it hits me.Oh my God. I slept with him.I, Charlotte Isabella Montgomery, h

“You’re not going to believe this,” Emily says, her voice tense with the kind of urgency that makes your stomach drop before your brain can even catch up.“He’s engaged.”I blink. “Who’s engaged?”She exhales like it should be obvious. “Axton Rowe, Charlotte. Not Monty. God, no.”I freeze in the tub.The phone slips an inch from my wet hand and I stare at it like it just cursed me. Warm water clings to my skin. The bubbles have started to fade. My jaw is hanging open like I’m catching flies.“Charlotte?” Emily’s voice crackles from the speaker. “You still there?”“I—what do you mean, engaged?” I whisper, dragging the phone closer again like it’s some kind of bomb. “Engaged to who?”“I don’t know the girl,” Emily says quickly. “But I overheard it at the gallery. We were planning for my debut show, and the curator was name-dropping all the VIP guests, and Axton came up. She said he’s attending with his fiancée. Like, his fiancée.”The bubbles around me pop slowly, one by one. The water