This is seriously the longest fucking day ever.

I’m typing a text to Molly before a board meeting at my office headquarters.

Will Zane be there? Molly asks.

Fuck, no, I type. He’s not a board member. I know what your next question is going to be, too. So, no, I’m not talking to him. His number is blocked right now on my phone.

I don’t hear back from Molly for a few seconds, and then she hits me with this fucking bombshell. I think you should give him a chance to explain himself.

I take a deep breath and rub my temples. Why can’t anyone ever fucking support my point of view? I mean, does my best friend in the whole entire world really have to take his side?

The meeting is about to start. I’ll just talk to you about it later. I punch the words into the screen and push my phone deep into my purse pocket.

I just can’t fucking deal with talking to Zane right now. Think of a pile of shit on the ground, then set it on fire and bury it. Yeah, that’s totally me right now.

I mean I’m talking the lowest of the low. I’m underneath the burden of a million tons of conflict, and I can’t seem to escape. I’m just struggling to fucking make it out of bed each morning.

This board member meeting I’m getting ready to begin is super fucking important, too. If I don’t get this brand new lingerie line complete for the fall and winter line, then I’m more screwed than a wine cork at a girl’s night out.

Oh, yeah, and I forgot to mention that completing the line is only half of the fucking battle. I still have to have it delivered on time, or I can kiss my business and all my hard work goodbye.

People filter into the room, but I only see blurry human shapes; my mind won’t connect the faces or the features.

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but right now I can’t see anything but despair and sorrow. I try not to allow it to show, and I mask my pain behind a gruesome smile.

Most people treat me the same as usual, so I’m hopeful that no one is catching on to my bottomless pit of self-pity.

How the fuck am I supposed to piece myself together enough, to not only appear in this meeting, but also lead the damn thing?

I’m still trying to figure it out, and as I look at the clock on the wall, I realize I only have a few minutes left before its fucking sink-or-swim.

Morning sickness ebbs and flows, so I just pray I don’t get punched in the gut by a fresh bout of it during this meeting―but by the way things are going for me lately, I won’t be surprised if I puke all over the board room table.

I’m going to be a single parent. Yep, that means alone―fucking alone with a baby. Do I even know how to care for a baby?

I’ve continuously doubted myself ever since I found Zane’s second secret contract―or, as I like to affectionately call, it the ‘Destroy Piper’ contract.

I imagine the baby screaming through the night, and the fear of being unable to comfort him or her. What if I can’t produce breast milk? Do I even know how to fucking put on a diaper the right way?

Granted, I have yet to go to the obstetrician, but I’m still going to freak out and have several panic attacks a day, because I’m an emotional cutter who loves to compete with myself and up the ante. Each day, I make a fucking bet with myself to see how many times I can cry over this shit.

Stop feeling sorry for me; all of this is my fault. Why, you ask? Well, I put myself in the vulnerable fucking position I’m in―not only to create the contract for Zane to sign, but also to sign it myself and believe that he’s actually going to follow through.

They say stereotypes are true for a fucking reason, you know. How else do they become stereotypes unless there is data to back them up and prove them? My current example and point being Zane Tanner, a.k.a Prick of the Century.

He’s the arrogant asshole who will stop at nothing to get his way, and that includes manipulating susceptible women in his path.

I not only cringe at the thought that I’m not a strong, independent woman, but I’m also going insane over this predicament, and I don’t see a clear way out.

I don’t want to fucking raise a baby alone, but who the fuck does? I’m not the only one on that front. What pregnant woman out there says ‘Wow, I’m so grateful to have no husband or boyfriend to stand by my side for the next 18 fucking years?’ No woman out there, I guarantee it.

Yeah, exactly, it just doesn’t fucking happen. Betrayal is a fucking bitter pill to swallow, and right now I’m choking on the residue of Zane’s.

As everyone sits down and looks up at me expectantly, I find myself going through the motions and greeting the people in the room in a friendly manner as I discuss the plans, goals, and the need for ideas and feedback.

Inside my mind though, I’m having a breakdown. I can curse Zane up to the sun and back, but it won’t change the fact that I’m still actually madly fucking in love with him, and I’m willing to jump in front of a fucking train to prove it.

I want to be with Zane. I want to have a fucking Christmas card with our photo on it, a baby in my arms as we’re sitting in front of the tree or by the fire. I want to come home from work and sit down as a family while we eat dinner together.

Fuck, I think I even want to live in the suburbs where we have an actual yard for our baby to play in.

It’s a beautiful scene in my mind. I look at my board members and think about how they have no idea about the fucking bombshell I’m about to drop on their heads.

I need to take a breather; I need some time to figure things out, even though I’m ready to announce to them that I’m going to take a leave of absence, and though my speech is drilled into my brain from hours of practice in front of the mirror.

I refuse to look at my smirking ex-boyfriend David Brigman, who is sitting in the back like a slimy leech. I have no idea why he’s grinning so profusely, so I choose to look away in order to resist the urge to smack him.

Just as I’m about to launch into my speech about why I need to take my leave, Zane bursts through the closed board room doors, breathing rapidly and looking wild.