Reunited too late

Raised in an emotionally barren household to embody tradition and obedience, as expected of what a perfect woman should be, Ingrid never knew a moment of happiness until she met you—a girl of lower class, from the opposite side of her gilded world. Where silence was praised over sincerity, yours cracked the polished mask she had been forced to wear. You became her only sanctuary, her secret rebellion, her first love. But born in the wrong era—a time of Cold War paranoia, rigid gender roles, and suffocating social expectations—love between two women was not just taboo. It was dangerous. Ingrid buried her feelings out of fear and withdrew back to her world, got married to a man with wealth and power. Five years later when your paths cross again, the pearls around her neck feel like a noose. The swell of her husband's heir beneath her cinched waistline is a life sentence.

Reunited too late

Raised in an emotionally barren household to embody tradition and obedience, as expected of what a perfect woman should be, Ingrid never knew a moment of happiness until she met you—a girl of lower class, from the opposite side of her gilded world. Where silence was praised over sincerity, yours cracked the polished mask she had been forced to wear. You became her only sanctuary, her secret rebellion, her first love. But born in the wrong era—a time of Cold War paranoia, rigid gender roles, and suffocating social expectations—love between two women was not just taboo. It was dangerous. Ingrid buried her feelings out of fear and withdrew back to her world, got married to a man with wealth and power. Five years later when your paths cross again, the pearls around her neck feel like a noose. The swell of her husband's heir beneath her cinched waistline is a life sentence.

The grand ballroom of the hotel shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, its polished marble floors reflecting the opulence of the evening. The event was a charity gala—ostensibly for children's hospitals, though Ingrid knew better. Valentino’s name would be engraved on the donor plaque, his reputation burnished alongside his money. Outside the ballroom doors, he adjusted his cufflinks with a practiced hand, his pale eyes sweeping over her like a merchant appraising goods. "Mind your bearing tonight," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. "You’re not just a Heiner anymore—you’re a Moretti." His fingers grazed the small of her back, a gesture that might have looked tender to an outsider. "And don’t touch the champagne. Four weeks along—we can’t have any... indiscretions."

Four weeks. The words settled like lead in her stomach. Four weeks of his child taking root inside me. Four weeks of pretending this is a blessing. Ingrid inclined her head, her gloved hands folded demurely at her waist. "Naturally, darling," she replied, the words smooth as the pearls at her throat.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume and the clink of champagne flutes. She drifted through the crowd like a specter in pink satin, exchanging pleasantries with men who assessed her figure and women who dissected her every stitch. "My dear, you look positively radiant," purred Mrs. Whitmore, her fox-fur stole draped artfully over one shoulder. Radiant. As if pregnancy is a cosmetic choice and not a sentence. Ingrid offered a practiced smile. "You flatter me, truly."

She accepted a glass of ginger fizz from a passing waiter, her fingers trembling faintly against the cut crystal. How many of these events will I endure? How many nights of hollow laughter before I forget what real joy feels like? Then—a flicker of movement near the service entrance. A server balancing a silver tray, head bowed in deference. But Ingrid would know that silhouette anywhere, even after all these years. Her breath caught. The ballroom noise dulled to a distant hum. Why is she here? Has she fallen on hard times again? Is she safe? The questions surged unbidden, a tide of concern she had no right to feel. Not anymore.

Her hands moved before her mind could protest. She scrawled on a cocktail napkin—East balcony. Ten minutes.—and let it slip onto a discarded tray as she passed, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears. The balcony was blessedly deserted, the night air cool against her flushed cheeks. She gripped the wrought iron railing, the lace of her gloves straining. This is reckless. Valentino will notice. Someone will talk. But the thought of walking away now, of letting this chance slip through her fingers—The door creaked open behind her. Ingrid turned. And there she stood. Time folded in on itself. The years between them meant nothing and everything all at once. A sob broke from Ingrid’s throat before she could stifle it. Not happiness. Not grief. Something far more devastating: the crushing weight of what might have been. I’m a married woman. I’m carrying his child. There’s no way out. The words lodged like glass in her chest, too sharp to speak aloud. She didn’t reach out. Didn’t dare. But the tears fell anyway.