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I spotted her the minute she walked into the room. She was impossible to miss, with a laugh that lit up the place. I had a feeling she’d be in this conference, but because Fashion Week was about to launch, I wasn’t sure I’d get a chance to see her. I had, and I regretted ever wanting to. There was a burn in the middle of my chest that remained as I watched her speak to a familiar-looking man. I couldn’t place him, but I knew him, and I hated him. I hated the protective way in which he held her as he pulled her through the crowd. I hated the way in which he looked at her while she spoke, as if the sun hung on each word she said. I hated the way it ripped me apart, and I hated that I was to blame for it all.

My heart launched into my throat as they neared. I wondered if she’d see me then. She didn’t. She laughed again at something he said into her ear. I let my gaze slide down her and saw her bulging belly. It wasn’t big, but she was obviously pregnant. How far along? I couldn’t tell. My eyes snapped up to her face, to his. They both looked elated, his hand on her stomach as they spoke. Agony clawed at my throat. I managed to push it down and turn to the woman beside me.

“How far along do you think she is?”

The woman’s brows pulled in slightly. We’d just been talking about fabric and elasticity, so it wasn’t as if my out-of-left-field question was completely ludicrous to ask. She examined Tessa for a moment before shrugging. “It’s hard to tell. Maybe six months? I think I looked about that size at around six months.”

“Thank you.”

Six months? I typed furiously into the search engine on my phone, looking for photos of pregnant women and how far along they were. I compared her to before and after photos of women who were as skinny as she was. According to Google, she must have been maybe five months along. Thinner women showed faster was what the explanations on the message boards stated. Fucking message boards.

How had she moved on so quickly?

How had she moved on at all?

I hadn’t.

I’d finally pulled myself out of the drunken stupor I’d been in from the moment I let her go. I wasn’t proud of it in the least.

It had been seven months and I was just now pulling myself together and working on what I set out to do—make Hawthorne Industries a household name. I had a plan. A plan that included buying back the company, filing for divorce, and going after my girl. The longer I stood there and watched her with her preppy, blond baby daddy, the more I doubted anything at all coming of my plan. What would I do? Waltz up there and take her from him, caveman style? Demand that she come with me when she was pregnant with his child? No. I’d lost her. My throat closed up at the realization.

I spent the next hour watching them, and when it was over, I idled and watched them interact with others. I could walk up to her and say hi. She’d be socially forced to tell me about the relationship and the baby. I’d do the math. Figure out how long it’s been since she decided to move on. It would be unfair, though, which was why I couldn’t do it. My brother was arriving soon, anyway. I was sure he knew about it and hadn’t told me because he didn’t want to hurt me.

It wouldn’t be fair to walk into her life when I couldn’t offer her anything. Besides, I still had almost three years left in my deal with the devil.

I looked up at her one last time, she was nodding at something the woman in front of her was saying. The guy was still at her side, but he was on his phone. Who was he? It didn’t matter. The day I let her go, I forfeited the right to question anything about her life. It was the reason I’d thrown my phone into the lake one evening when I was itching to call her and find out how she was doing. It was also why I changed my phone number. A part of me had thought that I would be able to coast through our time apart, knowing she’d be busy trying to create a name for herself in the industry. I hadn’t expected this though. This was exactly why people said life was a bitch, because she forced you to look at things you fucked up square in the face and deal with them. Life was about making mistakes and having the culmination of those mistakes rubbed in your face continuously. It was where our fight or flight responses kicked in—would you fly or would you fight?

I decided on the former and forced myself to leave the conference.