Ben took a bite of his burrito, studying me in that quiet, knowing way of his. “Well, if that fiancé of yours doesn’t appreciate you, that’s on him. He’s a fool.”
The mention of Jake’s name made something twist in my chest. A few weeks ago, two pink lines appeared on a little plastic stick, and my world changed. Then, Jake stopped answering his phone. A gnawing fear crept in that he wasn’t coming back at all.
“We’re not talking about him, remember?” I forced a smile.
I couldn’t lose this job. Not now. Armen, the owner of the cab company, was strict. One hint that I was pregnant, and he’d find an excuse to fire me. I had bills to pay, savings to build, and a baby coming whether I was ready or not.
The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the garage speakers. “Amber, you’re up next.”
As the engine roared to life, I whispered to the silent passenger no one else could see, “It’s just you and me, kid. We’re going to make it.”
I grew up in a small town, raised by my grandpa, Hank, after my mom died. He taught me how to change a tire before I could drive and how to rebuild a carburetor by sixteen. “You take care of your own wheels, kid,” he’d say, “and no one can tell you where to go.”
Maybe that’s why I left for Denver after high school. I landed a job at a diner where I met Jake Miller. He was charming and said all the right things. I thought it was love. When I found out I was pregnant, I was nervous but happy. He was not.
“You’re sure?” he’d said, his voice cold. “Amber, we’re not ready for this. I thought you were taking care of it.”
The next morning, he was gone. Every call went to voicemail.
The first time I saw Jake again was three days later, outside a downtown boutique with her—Vanessa Brooks, a woman who looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover. He had his arm around her waist. When he saw me, he froze, then stepped in front of her as if I were a threat.
“Amber, what are you doing here?” His voice was sharp.
“I’m pregnant, Jake. With your child.”
Vanessa laughed, a soft, cruel sound. “Pregnant with his child? Sweetheart, you need to move on. Jake has.”
“We’re not in a place for this,” Jake muttered, not looking at me. “You should… you should do what’s best. Get rid of it.”
Get rid of it. The words sliced through me. This was the man I had trusted with my heart. The crack of my palm against his cheek echoed louder than I expected. “You coward,” I whispered. “You don’t deserve to be anyone’s father.”
I stumbled away. That night, I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, rocking like a child. I almost called a clinic, but then I pressed my hand to my belly. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t lose you, too.”
The next day, Ben from work and his wife, Carla, found me a wreck. “Honey,” Carla said, squeezing my hand, “don’t let that man define your life. You’re stronger than this.”
Ben suggested I drive for the cab company. The pay was steady, and as he said, “You already know how to fix an engine. That’s half the battle.” It sounded crazy, but the next morning, I was hired. The long hours kept me busy. Slowly, I started to feel like I wasn’t just surviving; I was building something new.
One night, a long-haul fare out of the city was canceled last minute. Frustrated, I headed back in the spitting rain. That’s when I saw him—a shadow stumbling out of the treeline, collapsing onto the shoulder of the road. It was a man, clothes torn and smeared with dried blood. I hesitated, but I couldn’t just leave him.
I pulled over. “Hey, you okay? Do you need help?”
“Please… help me,” he managed, then collapsed onto the wet asphalt.
Somehow, I got him into the back of the cab and sped to the nearest hospital. He mumbled one word, “Liam,” before passing out again. At the ER, I gave my statement and even paid for his intake since he had no wallet or ID.
When I got back to the garage, Armen was furious. “You think this is a charity?” he barked. “Picking up some random bum? Consider your bonus gone.”
The next morning, three men were at my door. The one in charge, dressed in a tailored suit, smiled a cold, practiced smile. “You’re Amber Bennett. You saved my son last night, Liam Carter. I’m very grateful.”
He placed a thick envelope of cash on my counter. It felt less like gratitude and more like hush money. “He’s recovering,” the man continued, his eyes flicking around my apartment. “You didn’t hear anything unusual from him, did you? Sometimes trauma makes people say strange things.”
“No,” I lied automatically. “He barely spoke.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
The whole encounter felt wrong. I drove back to the hospital. The front desk nurse told me Liam wasn’t taking visitors; he was in a medically induced coma. As I walked away, stunned, a young nurse named Grace Moore pulled me into a supply room.
“He’s not in a coma,” she whispered nervously. “They’re sedating him. That man claiming to be his father, he paid off our chief of medicine. I heard him say, ‘Keep him under until I say otherwise.’ Someone doesn’t want him awake.” She touched my arm. “If you want to keep him safe, you need to get him out of here.”
That night, I barely slept. I’d already risked my job for him. Could I really walk away now? By dawn, I had my answer.
Two days later, disguised in a nurse’s cap and mask, I met Grace at the hospital. We slipped into Liam’s room, disconnected his IV drip, and wheeled him on a gurney down the quiet halls. We loaded him into my cab, and Grace shoved a bag of medical supplies into my hands. “Take him somewhere safe,” she urged. “Just keep him alive.”
Liam didn’t fully wake until I’d gotten him into my tiny apartment. He blinked, disoriented. “Where am I?”
“Safe,” I said. “You’re safe now.” I sat across from him. “You want to tell me why someone is paying doctors to keep you asleep?”
His jaw clenched. “Gregory Carter. He’s not my real father. He married my mom after my dad died and took control of everything.” He took a shaky breath. “My real father left me a controlling interest in his hotel chain. I get access on my 25th birthday, which is next week. Gregory wants it all. When I refused to sign it over, his men took me.”
“That’s who I talked to,” I said, stunned. “He called you his son.”
Liam gave a bitter laugh. “He calls me son when it’s convenient. Otherwise, I’m just an obstacle.”
I looked at this half-broken man and felt something shift inside me. “You’re not going back there,” I said firmly.
A faint smile touched his lips. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know what it’s like to be thrown away like you don’t matter,” I shrugged. “I’m not letting that happen to you.”
The next morning, I drove him straight to the District Attorney’s office. He told them everything, on the record. The investigation moved quickly. By the end of the week, Gregory was in handcuffs, shouting at the cameras as they shoved him into a cruiser. Across the parking lot, he looked straight at me and hissed, “This isn’t over, girl. You ruined everything.”
For the first time in months, I didn’t flinch. I just rested a hand over my belly and said, “You did that all by yourself.”
In the weeks after Gregory’s arrest, life slowed into something almost gentle. Liam insisted on helping, bringing groceries, taking me to prenatal appointments, even fixing up a secondhand crib.
“This isn’t about owing you,” he said one evening. “It’s about wanting to be here.” And he was. Every day.
When labor came, sharp and sudden in the middle of the night, Liam was calm and steady. Hours later, as dawn painted the hospital windows pink, I held my son for the first time. Noah. He was perfect.
Liam stood beside the bed, his eyes shining. “He’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Amber, you’re incredible.”
A few days later, he walked in with a small ring box. “Amber,” he said quietly, “I know you’re scared to trust again. But I love you. I love Noah. I want to build a life with you, if you’ll have me.”
Tears of relief slipped down my cheeks. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, Liam.”
Three years passed in the blink of an eye. Our little house was filled with the happy chaos of our toddler, Noah. Liam had taken over his family’s business, running it with a kindness that reshaped the company and a loyalty that reshaped me. We were an ordinary family, and for someone who had once cried alone on a bathroom floor, that ordinariness felt like a miracle.
One afternoon, we were at a travel agency downtown when I froze. Behind the desk was Jake Miller. For a moment, he didn’t recognize me. I wasn’t the same broken woman he’d left. I was confident, calm, holding my son’s hand, wearing a ring that told the world I was loved.
His face went pale. “Amber.” His eyes flicked to Noah, then to Liam, who stepped protectively closer.
“Is… is he…?” Jake stammered.
“No,” I said gently but firmly. “This is Noah. And this,” I squeezed Liam’s hand, “is my husband.”
Jake’s mouth opened, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I turned to Liam. “We should go, honey.”
As we stepped out into the crisp air, Liam glanced at me. “You okay?”
I took a deep breath, feeling lighter than I had in years. “Yeah,” I said, a real smile spreading across my face. “Actually, I am.”
That night, watching Liam and Noah chase fireflies, I thought about the woman I used to be. The pain from my past had pushed me to find my own strength, to save a stranger who turned out to be the love of my life. Happiness isn’t something you’re given. It’s something you build, piece by piece. And I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.