Chapter 9 - The Day After the Ultrasound

The knock on the door was sharp and unexpected.

I was still in my pajamas, cradling a cup of ginger tea like it might hold all the answers I needed. Becky was in the kitchen, probably debating whether to tell me she'd texted Ian or let me have my peaceful delusions a little longer.

The second knock came.

"I'll get it," I muttered, already knowing. A knot twisted in my stomach.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

Ian Stone. My boss. My mistake. My something-I-can't-define. The man whose baby—babies—I was carrying.

His usually pristine suit was wrinkled, like he hadn't slept. His eyes found mine instantly, flickering with a hunger I recognized too well. But there was something new too—fear, desperation… hope?

"Bianca," he said, like he hadn't said it a million times in my imagination.

I stepped aside without a word, arms crossed over my chest.

Becky scurried off to her room, probably giving us space. Or hiding from the storm she had summoned.

"Did Becky tell you?" I asked, voice cold as marble.

He nodded. "About the twins."

His eyes scanned my figure—softly, reverently, like he was trying to memorize the new version of me that housed two lives. "Are you okay?"

"I'm pregnant, jobless, the target of half of America's gossip columns, and I just found out there are two heartbeats instead of one. So, peachy."

He tried to smile. "You always did have a way with sarcasm."

"Why are you here, Ian?"

"I had to see you. Had to know you were really okay. And—" he stepped closer "—because I can't get you out of my head."

He reached for me, hand grazing my cheek, and for a moment, I let him.

His palm was warm, grounding. My heart betrayed me—fluttering, flipping.

Then he leaned in.

His lips met mine in a kiss that was soft, searching, like a man trying to rewrite history with one kiss.

For a brief, breathless second, I kissed him back. My heart, my body, they remembered him too well.

Then I slapped him. Hard. Sharp. Final.

His head jerked slightly, more shocked than hurt.

"I told you to stay away from me."

"You didn't mean that," he said quietly.

I turned away, wrapping my arms around my middle protectively.

"I'm leaving, Ian."

His breath hitched. "Leaving… the apartment?"

"Leaving New York. Leaving the country. I'm going somewhere they don't care about the Rosewood name or Stone Enterprises or scandals."

His brows furrowed. "You're running away?"

"I'm starting over. I want to raise my babies in peace, not under the spotlight of your chaos."

He was silent. Then, "Where?"

"I'm not telling you."

He stepped closer again, this time with more caution. "Bianca… I know I hurt you. I didn't mean to. I didn't even know what was happening between us until it was too late. But I swear to you, I would do anything—anything—to be part of your life. Their life."

"You're married."

"I'm not anymore. The papers are in motion."

"You think that changes everything? That a few signatures erases all this?"

"No," he said simply. "But it's a start."

I turned back to him then, looking him in the eyes. "Ian… I'm not ready. I don't even know if I'll ever be ready. You broke something in me. And I need to figure out who I am before I decide who I want in my life."

Silence hung heavy in the room.

Finally, he nodded. "Then I'll wait. Wherever you go, whatever you do… I'll be here. When you're ready."

He stepped back, the distance between us now feeling unbearable.

He opened the door, paused, and looked back one last time.

"I love you, Bianca."

Then he left.

I stood there for a long moment, the silence deafening.

Becky peeked from her room. "So… you okay?"

"No," I whispered. "But I will be."

Meanwhile…

Vivian Stone's World

The headlines had changed.

"Former Supermodel Vivian Stone Loses Sponsorships Amid Domestic Scandal"

"Vivian Stone 'Retreats' to Private Rehab Facility Following Public Breakdown"

Her empire—built on beauty, precision, and image—was crumbling.

Vivian stared blankly at her reflection, untouched makeup kits spread across her bathroom counter like relics of another life. The woman in the mirror looked faded. Hollow.

The world had moved on from her.

They always did.

Bianca's Departure Day

The sun barely peeked over the skyline as I zipped up the last suitcase. My apartment—no, Becky and I's apartment—looked more like a warehouse of memories than a home now. Photos, folded notes, tear-streaked goodbye cards from Becky, my sisters, my mother… each one heavy with love and grief. I wasn't just leaving New York. I was cutting out a piece of my heart and tossing it in the Hudson.

Becky stood at the door, arms crossed, red-eyed but pretending to be strong. "You don't have to do this, B," she said, voice quiet like she was afraid speaking too loudly would make it real. "You don't have to run."

"I'm not running," I lied with a soft smile. "I'm choosing peace."

Becky snorted, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "You're choosing to be miserable in a country where they barely put ice in their drinks."

I laughed. "It's France, not Mars."

Still, her eyes didn't lose their ache. "What about the twins? You'll be alone—no Ian, no us—"

"Exactly," I cut in gently, "no Ian."

There was a long pause before Becky finally threw her arms around me, and we stood there, swaying like reeds in a storm. I had so many reasons to stay. But I had even more reasons to leave.

Later that day, my mother and sisters stood with me at the terminal. Linda and Leni wore matching pouts, and my mother looked like she wanted to throw herself across my suitcase just to stop me from boarding.

"I'll visit. I promise," I told them, hugging each tightly.

"France better treat you like royalty," Leni sniffed. "Because we already miss you, and you haven't even left yet."

"I'll send pictures," I said, trying to smile past the lump in my throat.

I walked through the gates, glancing back one last time. And then, just like that, I was gone.

Meanwhile, Ian's Descent

Ian Stone sat in the corner of his Manhattan penthouse, the city glittering beyond his window, mocking him with every blinking light. A glass of bourbon hung from his fingers, half-empty, or maybe half-full—he couldn't tell anymore. His beard was unshaven, eyes bloodshot, and the top buttons of his shirt hung open like he'd forgotten how to dress without Bianca reminding him.

Steve had come by three times that week. The last time, Ian punched him just for saying Bianca's name with a sigh.

"She's gone, man," Steve had said, applying an ice pack to his jaw. "France. I checked the flights. She left for good."

And just like that, Ian had laughed—a loud, broken thing that cracked in the middle. "France? I offered her the world, and she chooses croissants?"

But when the laughter died, the silence returned. And it screamed louder than any fight he'd had with Vivian.

He pulled out his phone again. No texts. No calls. Bianca had cut him off. Left him behind like a bad chapter. And maybe he deserved that.

Still, the pain clawed deeper every day. And so he poured another drink, to drown what couldn't be drowned.