The day Chicago got its first snow of the season, Ethan Mercer told me he was getting married. Seven years. I knew the rules of that world. A woman who made her living in front of cameras had no place at the threshold of a family like his. The night we ended things, we were strangely calm. “The apartment and the car are yours,” he said. “The projects I promised you still stand. And that check for three million — I added a zero.” “Anything else you want?” “No.” I took his settlement money like the sensible woman I was, and disappeared from his life. Until three months later, on a live celebrity panel show, when Bianca Holt told the entire internet I was pregnant. …… “Zara — oh my God, are you pregnant?!” The studio erupted. The live comment feed went insane. [ ??? ] [ Did Bianca actually just say that on live TV? What is WRONG with her ] [ That’s just Bianca being Bianca, she’s so real for this ] [ The only thing I care about: who’s the father ] [ Who else? Her billionaire, obviously ] [ Bianca is SO cooked. Zara’s guy will bury her ] [ … ] I was facing the screen. I read every single one. The host broke into a sweat and stepped in. “Bianca, are you sure you didn’t mix something up?” Bianca was already doubling down. “I’ve been watching her all week — she hasn’t touched a drink, she went pale during the afternoon break, and she’s been pressing her hand to her stomach when she thinks no one’s looking.” She smiled at me. “I know the signs. I’m right, aren’t I, Zara?” Three months. I did the math. It would have been the last night before Ethan and I ended things. Seven years together, and we’d always been careful. He was consistent; when things went further than planned, I took care of it after. That last night, maybe because we both knew it was the last night, we didn’t stop until morning. I went straight to set the next day. In the chaos of filming, I forgot. Across the table, Bianca was still waiting for my answer. I slid my wrist out of her reach and said nothing. At the level I was at now, she wasn’t worth the energy. The host laughed nervously and dragged the conversation somewhere else. By the time I got into the car after filming, my publicist had her phone in my face before I’d even buckled my seatbelt. Twitter trending, top three: #ZaraVossPregnant #WhoIsZaraVossBillionaire #MercerGroup Ethan had always kept a low profile. But when it came to making sure the industry knew I was protected — that I had someone behind me — he’d never been subtle about it. That someone was him. It started the year I broke into the industry, when a well-connected actor used a scene as cover to slap me eighteen times across the face. I was too green to know it wasn’t about my performance. I didn’t even think I deserved to be upset. Ethan was furious. He said I was an idiot. Gently. The next day, the actor was blacklisted. I’d asked quietly, “He has people behind him. Are you sure you want to do that?” “The people behind him should be worried about crossing me,” he said. For seven years, he poured every resource he had into my career. Oscar winners cast as my co-stars. The best directors offering me first pick of their projects. On the red carpet, industry veterans stepped aside. “My Zara should only ever be at the top,” he used to say. I hadn’t let him down. I’d made myself a household name. Which meant that with an influence like mine, a trending topic about a pregnancy was almost certainly going to reach Ethan Mercer. It did. His number lit up my screen the second I walked into my agency. I stared at those digits — ones I knew by heart — and let it ring out. When it went to voicemail, I sent three texts. I’m going to the hospital tomorrow for a proper test. If I am, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I won’t make this your problem.
It was already March, and the snow hadn’t stopped. Snow like this — thick and relentless — always brought me back to the night I first met Ethan. I was nineteen. A sophomore at NYU Tisch. He was the kind of investor that made school administrators straighten their spines and smile too hard. I was chosen to attend the fundraiser dinner. The reward was a supporting role in an upcoming production. A few glasses of whiskey in, the gentlemen in the room stopped pretending. They started pushing drinks on me. Ethan was at the head of the table. He tapped one finger against the side of his glass, unhurried. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.” Just that. No one pushed another drink on me for the rest of the night. I looked up, startled. He glanced over at the same moment. One second, in a room full of noise and flattery. Our eyes met. I thanked him and didn’t think much of it. A man like that had no reason to ever cross paths with someone like me again. But after that night, he kept appearing. Always the one rescuing me. A role stolen by the dean’s daughter — one word from him and it was returned. A blizzard night when I couldn’t get a cab — he drove me back to the dorms himself. My father’s surgery, the hospital out of O-negative blood — Ethan Mercer, in his tailored suit, donated four hundred cc’s without being asked. He was too good to me. Good enough to scare me. I was afraid it was just boredom. That I was a distraction for a man who had everything. I was the one who broke first. “What do you want?” I said. “Is it to sleep with me? Then let’s get it over with.” I reached for my buttons. “After that, we’re even.” He stilled my hands. Pulled my shirt closed. Let out a quiet breath. “Zara. What do you want?” My lashes trembled. I made myself hold his gaze. “I want to be loved like I’m enough,” I said. “Can you do that?” Ethan went still. Then, slowly, a smile. He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. His voice was soft enough to undo a person. “Yes.” He wasn’t lying. He loved me the way I’d asked to be loved. But love isn’t everything. It wasn’t strong enough to close the distance between where he came from and where I did. Class is a wall you can’t charm your way through. No matter how high I climbed, I couldn’t make it disappear. The day we ended things, Chicago was under its first snow of the year. The night before, we moved through every room of the apartment. He cooked dinner. When I finished eating, he said: “I’m getting married.” A few seconds of silence. Then I set down my chopsticks and said, “Okay.” We sat there for a long time. The food went cold. Eventually he spoke. “The apartment and the car are yours. The projects I promised, still yours. That check — I added a zero.” “Anything else?” “No.” Ethan nodded. He stood, turned, and walked out into the snow. I watched his back until it was gone. Somewhere in that moment, I felt the faint pull of something I couldn’t name. We’d been together seven years and I didn’t think I’d ever said it out loud. Those three words. Seven years. Snow after snow after snow. I’d let myself believe we might grow old in it. I let myself believe there would still be time. What a shame. The snow thickened. His silhouette dissolved into white. My vision blurred. I touched my face, slow and dull, only then registering the cold. Tears.
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