Drake's POV
Drake had been in classrooms like that all his life—bright, clean, predictable.
He was used to walking in and being recognized. Noticed.
But today was different.
Today, he noticed someone else first.
She hadn't said much. Barely looked his way. But the way she sat there on that bench—like the world had pressed pause for her—stuck with him.
He'd offered a hand. A name. She took it, but not like most people did. She didn't try to impress him. Didn't try to charm him. She just… existed, quietly.
And somehow that had been louder than anything.
But then came Stephen.
As soon as she saw him, she changed. The timid energy was gone, replaced by this soft, natural glow Drake hadn't expected. She lit up like someone who'd just been reminded of who she used to be.
They hugged like old friends.
Drake sat quietly, not interrupting, but not invisible either. His eyes rested on Mary even as the professor began.
She didn't look at him once.
Stephen, though—he noticed.
At some point in the lecture, Stephen shot him a look. Subtle, but clear.
Do you know her?
Drake blinked, caught off guard.
He didn't answer, just shifted his eyes to the front.
No, he thought. But I want to.
The rest of the class blurred past him in fragmented thoughts. He couldn't focus on supply chain models or the way Professor Elliot explained growth curves. Not when Mary sat just two seats away, laughing quietly at Stephen's whispered jokes and acting like Drake had never existed.
He wasn't used to being dismissed.
And yet… it didn't feel like arrogance. It felt like she was hiding something.
Or maybe protecting something.
When class ended, he didn't rush to leave. He watched her walk ahead with Stephen, the braid down her back swaying in rhythm, her laughter echoing faintly down the hallway.
He didn't know her.
But she felt… familiar.
Not in the I've seen you before kind of way.
In the you remind me of something I lost kind of way.
Drake exhaled as he stepped out into the hallway, the air cool against his face.
He didn't know it yet, but something had already shifted.
And there was no going back.
By the time Drake pulled into the circular driveway of his family's estate just outside Cambridge, the silence inside the car felt thicker than usual.
The iron gates had opened without question, like they always did. The security guard had waved, like he always did.
He stepped out and looked up at the mansion.
Three stories of pale gray stone, tall glass windows trimmed in black, and golden light spilling out onto the pristine cobblestone. It was the kind of place that made visitors straighten their backs, speak with extra manners, and ask before touching anything.
The estate had always been impressive.
But tonight, it looked… cold.
Still beautiful—just colder.
Drake walked through the double oak doors into the grand foyer, where a chandelier of imported crystal hung overhead like a floating galaxy. It sparkled even in silence, throwing soft reflections onto the marble floor beneath his shoes.
He didn't take off his sneakers.
To the left, the piano no one played. To the right, the staircase that curved like a sculpture into the upper floors.
And straight ahead—the living room.
He entered slowly, as he always did when his mind was full. The room welcomed him with velvet sofas, gold-accented tables, and tall vases filled with carefully curated flowers that no one in the house had ever watered.
But it was the portraits that made the room what it was.
Massive, commanding.
His father, Smith Edward , in a navy suit, arms crossed, the family crest behind him like a crown.
His mother, elegant in emerald green, a soft but unreadable smile.
And then Drake—ten years old, dressed like a prince, smiling wide and unaware.
He stood there now, looking at that painted boy.
Unaware.
That was the word that stuck.
Drake dropped his keys onto the marble table and let out a breath.
The house was perfect.
And yet, for the first time, it felt like a museum—full of things you weren't supposed to touch.
He walked past the portraits and headed up the stairs, not even bothering to call out. His parents weren't home.
They rarely were.
Drake pushed open the double doors to his bedroom and walked into what most people would mistake for a luxury hotel suite.
It was massive—walls painted in slate gray and deep navy, with gold accents lining the corners. His king-sized bed sat at the center like a throne, layered with expensive sheets, custom pillows, and a weighted throw blanket that probably cost more than most students' tuition.
To the right was a private lounge space with a leather couch, bookshelf, and a mini fridge stocked by someone paid to remember what he liked. To the left, French doors led to a balcony overlooking the private garden no one really used.
Every corner of the room spoke of wealth—tastefully arranged, quietly powerful.
He walked across the marble floor, pulled off his hoodie, and collapsed onto the bed, letting the silence wrap around him like an armor.
Then his phone buzzed.
Sasha 💋 calling.
He stared at the screen.
They hadn't talked much lately. She'd been distant, distracted—and to be honest, so had he.
He answered anyway.
"Hey."
There was no hello. No softness. Just Sasha's sharp voice coming in fast.
"Drake, we need to talk."
He sat up slowly. "Okay… what's up?"
A pause. A breath.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hit him like a cold slap.
He blinked, sitting upright now, heart pounding for reasons he couldn't explain.
"What?"
"I said I'm pregnant. And before you start acting surprised, yes—it's yours."
Drake stood, phone pressed to his ear, pacing across the room.
"Sasha… when was the last time we were even together?"
Another pause.
"Don't do that," she said. "Don't start calculating timelines. You were there."
"Barely," he muttered.
He remembered the night vaguely—weeks ago, after a party. They hadn't even been talking properly for a while before that. It was routine by then. Cold. Convenient.
And now this?
"You're serious?" he asked, stopping near the window.
"Dead serious. And I'm not about to deal with this alone, Drake. You're not going to disappear on me."
He stared out into the night, the garden lights casting shadows through the glass.
This wasn't how his day was supposed to end.
This wasn't how anything was supposed to go.
His voice was quieter now. "You sure it's mine?"
That set her off.
"You think I'm lying?" she snapped. "You think I'd say something like this just to—"
"You would," he interrupted.
She went silent.
And in that silence, he felt it.
"You know what?" he added. "Send me the proof. Until then… don't call me again."
He ended the call.
Dropped the phone on his desk like it was burning.
Then he sank back into his bed, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn't just the possible pregnancy.
It was the feeling that everything around him—every relationship, every person—was held together by expectation, not truth.
And that included Sasha.
Now, more than ever, he wanted something that wasn't wrapped in performance.
Something—someone—real.
Like Mary.
But he didn't even know her.
Not yet.