My Fiancé Is A… Dad?

As a teenager, I believed this was what love looked like. So I kept trying to get closer to him—learning what he liked, shaping myself into someone he would want.

At eighteen, I put on my first strapless dress and high heels. At a party, a rich young man struck up a casual conversation with me. That was all it took. Dennis dragged me into a bathroom and kissed me—hard.

His dark eyes stared into mine from beneath tousled hair. He pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, "You're mine."

From the very beginning, he was the one who gave me hope. Every gesture, every word said he liked me. But now, he says I've been the one clinging to him.

I walked away, devastated. The moment I reached the door, I broke down.

My hands trembled as I took out my phone and opened Telegram.

The most recent message from Dennis read: [Anna, happy birthday.]

At the time, I was saving a pregnant woman's life, covered in blood, running on no sleep for over twenty-four hours. But when I saw his message, all my energy came back.

I wiped away my tears and tapped the voice call button.

"Anna, what's wrong?" His voice came through the line, as gentle as ever.

He must have stepped somewhere quiet to answer—the call had rung for a long time before he picked up.

I wanted to speak, but all I could see in my mind was the image of him holding a child, standing next to another woman.

"Anna?" he called again.

I used to love how my name sounded coming from him. But now, it made my stomach churn.

"Dennis," I said. "I'm back in the country."

If he listened carefully, he could probably hear the faint tremor in my voice. But he didn't seem to notice.

There was a pause on the other end, then he asked, "You're back? Why? Where are you now? I'll come get you."

The truth is, the moment I saw him in the garden with that woman and their child, something inside me had already collapsed.

And now, he was back to being gentle again—so effortlessly tender.

"I'm at the front door," I said quietly.

This house was a gift he gave me when I turned eighteen. Back then, he told me, "No matter who you end up with, this house will always be yours. With this house, you'll never want for respect."

But now, he was living in that house with another woman. And they had a child.

By the time Dennis stepped outside, I had already pulled myself together.

He walked toward me through the snow, one slow step at a time, his eyes full of something that looked like worry.

When he reached me, he pulled me into his arms. His breath was warm against my ear.

"Anna, it's been three years. You've lost weight."

A scent of peaches clung to him, sweet and unfamiliar.

He smelled different now.

He used to carry a faint trace of tea.

I recoiled at his touch, pushing him away.

His pupils contracted for a second. Then he smiled.

"Our little Anna's all grown up. Knows the difference between men and women now. But I'm still your future husband. Don't treat me like a stranger, okay?"

Once, I thought he was a light in my world.

Back when I first came to the McMillan family, I was quiet and withdrawn. I got bullied at school all the time. One day after class, a group cornered me in an alley. Then Dennis appeared, driving a black Maybach. He pulled up and trapped those boys in the corner with his car.

Then he got out and stood in front of me.

I'll never forget the coldness in his voice as he said, "Anna is my sister. Anyone who dares lay a hand on her again won't walk away from it."