Chapter 4: The Future I Never Wanted

Evan showed up again a few days later.

He shoved a packet of pills into my hand.

They were morning-after pills.

He said, "You’re not married yet. If you get pregnant, people will talk."

Oddly, his words almost sounded like concern.

He fiddled with the edge of his hoodie, unable to meet my gaze. For a second, I almost believed he cared.

I was dazed for a moment.

Seeing I didn’t reply, Evan frowned. "Don’t tell me—"

"Don’t tell me you’re already pregnant?"

His eyes searched my face, all fake bravado gone.

I looked up at him, at the face that had once made me so happy, and quietly asked, "What if I am?"

Evan replied without hesitation, "If you are, then take something to end it."

He said it fast, like he was reading from a script he’d rehearsed in his head a hundred times.

"How could you have a baby before the wife does?"

The word wife stung more than any slap.

I looked at him without expression.

After he said this, he seemed to realize he’d just demoted me from wife to side piece.

He forced a smile, his tone softening a little. "Morgan, don’t worry. You’re always different to me."

He reached for my hand, but I yanked it away, my nails digging into my palm.

"What’s the difference between wife and side piece? As long as we care about each other, that’s enough."

I couldn’t help but ask, "If there’s no difference, why did you scheme to make me the side piece and let Willa be the wife?"

At this, Evan’s face darkened. "What kind of talk is that?"

He glared at me like I’d spit on the family dinner table.

"You’re already so petty before even marrying in. If you became the wife, wouldn’t my house be a mess?"

Petty?

I was raised to be kind and gentle; the only time I ever let myself go was with him.

Mom used to say, “Don’t make a scene, honey.” I’d taken that to heart, swallowing every hurt and slight for as long as I could remember.

I never objected to him dating others. He was the one who promised to be loyal, coaxing me and swearing we’d be together forever.

When he held me, he said he wished I’d get jealous.

At the time, I even thought I’d found someone who truly loved me.

Now—

It was like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over me, chilling me to the bone.

My teeth chattered, but I forced myself to stand tall. I ignored Evan and turned to leave.

He called after me, "Morgan Grant, like this, no guy but me would want you."

He was wrong.

I had a good reputation, and my family was respected.

Before him, plenty of decent guys had asked about me.

Not to mention, on my mom’s side, a few cousins had even talked about marriage.

Aunt Beth used to joke that I was the last Southern belle left in Chicago, too precious for anyone but the right man.

It was me who thought, having grown up with Evan and knowing each other so well, that he’d treat me right.

It was all my mistake.

Dad called me over and gave me a list of eligible young men.

He slid it across the kitchen table, his hands shaking just a bit. I recognized a couple of names from family barbecues—nothing more than distant acquaintances.

I glanced at it; none were from Chicago, and their families weren’t as prominent as ours.

Dad sighed, "We’re at fault. I’ll set aside a bigger trust for you, so you can have a good life with your new family."

He tried to sound confident, but his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. He reached across the table, squeezing my hand like he hadn’t done since I was twelve.

Dad held a high position in the city and would never let Evan manipulate him.

He reminded me, “You’re still my daughter, no matter what. I’m not letting anyone ruin you.”

He pulled me into a hug, and for the first time in years, I let myself cry on his shoulder.

My future husband’s family was finally settled—a respected family in distant Savannah.

I pictured sprawling oaks, the sticky sweetness of magnolia blooms, and porch swings creaking in the humid dusk. The idea of starting over in the South, where the Spanish moss hangs low and time moves a little slower, filled me with equal parts dread and hope.