Chapter 1: Viral Lies & Food Babies

I was trending on every platform's hot list.

My phone practically vibrated off the nightstand with all the notifications—seriously, it was like it wanted to run away. There it was: a video of me, my belly looking a little round as I clung to my best friend, sobbing into her shoulder. The video quality was super grainy, but my words came through loud and clear:

"He got me pregnant and won't take responsibility. How are me and the baby supposed to handle this?"

Meanwhile, the internet was absolutely losing its mind. Even an Oscar-winning actor, who was off filming in Europe, dyed his hair neon green and posted a rare selfie with the caption:

"Mother Earth, but make it neon."

People started speculating that maybe it was a cryptic show of support for me, or maybe just a meme—either way, it only fanned the flames.

It was the kind of thing that triggered a full-blown online frenzy—everyone had an opinion, everyone was convinced they knew the real story. The comments just kept coming, each one more dramatic than the last:

"Oh my god! America's sweetheart is pregnant?!"

"She looks like she's only eighteen! I can't believe she's already a mom!"

"Which jerk in Hollywood did this? Don't worry, girl, we've got your back!"

"I'm grabbing popcorn for this comment section—let's see who dares talk bad about our girl."

The whole country was rallying behind me, making me the poster child for betrayed innocence. If only they knew how far off base they all were.

I woke up with a killer hangover, my head pounding like a bass drum. The second I reached for my phone, I got hit with a tidal wave of texts, missed calls, and notifications—my phone looked like it had run a marathon.

In the video, my belly was a bit puffy as I clung to my best friend, crying my eyes out. Even I wanted to reach through the screen and hug myself.

"He got me pregnant and won't take responsibility. How are we supposed to deal with this?"

Drunk and teary, my baby face looked pathetic—no wonder people felt sorry for me.

That natural advantage was why my agency pushed the cute girl-next-door image for me. It worked. Even at twenty-seven, I still had a huge fanbase of older women who saw me as their own kid—my so-called "mom fans."

Honestly, sometimes I wondered if my cheeks would ever lose that permanent flush, or if I was just born to look like someone who needed protecting. My agent always said I could be selling lemonade on a street corner and still get cast as the ingenue.

The moment that video dropped, my first thought was: I'm toast. The image I'd worked so hard to build? Down the drain.

I scrolled frantically through my feed, heart racing, and finally breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. For once, the internet was on my side. The comments were all bashing the mystery jerk.

There was something almost comforting about the way strangers online leapt to my defense, like a whole army of big sisters online. I couldn't help but smile, even as my nerves were shot.

I patted my round belly. "Am I really pregnant? Well, maybe with barbecue, beer, and corndogs. Honestly, after last night, I'm surprised I'm not pregnant with twins."

I poked at my stomach, feeling the aftermath of last night's food binge. If I was expecting anything, it was probably a food baby. I grinned, thinking, Only in America could a food binge get you mistaken for pregnant.

Honestly, checking my phone feels like running diplomacy at the UN.

Between the fans, the haters, the PR team, and my mom texting me cryptic emojis, it was like trying to keep peace between rival nations—except all the countries are obsessed with my uterus.

After I replied to my best friend, she immediately called me back.

"Girl, you're finally awake! Do you know what time it is? This is huge—"

She hadn't even finished before I cut her off, no mercy.

"Something this big happened and instead of replying to my manager, I texted you first. You better call me 'wifey' or I won't let it go."

She burst out laughing. "Don't! Anyone who calls you 'wifey' now is gonna get roasted."

I rolled my eyes. "Not my fault. Blame the paparazzi for not posting the full audio with the video." Typical.

There was a pause, then we both started giggling. The absurdity of it all—America's sweetheart, brought down by a half-eaten hot dog and a viral video.

Suddenly, something furry brushed against my arm. I turned—my cat, Maple, had jumped onto the bed, pawing at my arm for belly rubs.

I instinctively wanted to rub her belly, but hesitated at the last second and just scratched her head. I'm not the one who's pregnant. It's my British Shorthair, Maple.

Maple is a silver British Shorthair. One day she bolted out when I opened the door and got lost. I searched all day until she finally came back, meowing nonstop and breaking my heart. She looked fine, so I scooped her up and cuddled her. But as the days passed, her belly kept getting bigger. The vet confirmed it—Maple had been knocked up by some no-good tomcat. She was only one. That jerk had no shame. For the first time, I understood how messy it feels for a mom when her kid ends up pregnant by some random guy. I'd planned to get Maple spayed after her heat, but now... So that night my best friend and I cried over street food. I ate too much, my belly went round, and that's when the paparazzi caught us.

I remember sitting on the curb outside the taco truck, greasy napkin in hand, Maple's fate weighing on me like a stone. My best friend tried to cheer me up by naming all the possible baby daddies—"Was it the orange tabby from next door? The tuxedo from the alley?"—but I just kept eating until my jeans felt like a tourniquet. That was the moment the flashbulbs went off. Timing, as always, was not my strong suit.

Manager Taylor called:

"You got pregnant and didn't even tell me?! Am I just chopped liver to you?"

I've been online too much lately, so I almost blurted out: "You're... plan B, option E." My brain was fried from all the online drama.

"...Savannah!"

I immediately caved under her authority and explained, "Taylor, I'm not pregnant—it's my cat who's expecting."

"Then what's with your belly..."

She suddenly got it and got even angrier: "I told you not to binge eat! Now look, you'll lose all your endorsement deals!"

She kept going: "No, no, we can't let people think it's a body management issue. Maybe you should just say you had the baby."

I put on my best pitiful act: "Sis, my one and only, do you even hear yourself? What am I supposed to do, conjure a baby out of thin air?"

Taylor was relentless, but I could hear the affection under her exasperation. She cared—maybe too much, but that was her job. I made a mental note to send her flowers after this all blew over.