Abby Brooks did not believe in fairy tales.
She didn't believe in the glossy, manufactured stories of perfect love, where a woman's worth was measured by the size of her diamond or the surname she adopted. At thirty-two, she had meticulously observed the messy, beautiful, and often tragic tapestry of relationships around her. She watched friends fall headfirst into passion, only to be yanked out by betrayal. She watched couples cling to unhappy marriages for the sake of appearances. She saw the risk in letting your entire world rest on the unreliable foundation of another person's heart.
Abby's own history was a lesson in self-reliance. Her father was a phantom, a myth in her life, and the men who followed in her mother's life were temporary anchors that always dragged away in the morning. She had learned early: love was conditional, but self-determination was absolute.
She didn't want a knight. She didn't want the castle. She didn't want the mess that came with the male ego, the demands, the expectations, and the inevitable disappointment.
She just wanted a child.
It was a dream she held close, a quiet, non-negotiable yearning for a family of her own, one built not on romantic expectation, but on unconditional, maternal love. She wanted the motherhood, not the marriage. She wanted the fiercely loyal connection that only a parent and child could share. And after months of trying the conventional way, timing cycles, tracking basal temperatures, and hoping for a miracle that never arrived, she had quietly settled on a solution.
She was going to choose.
She walked into the sterile, quiet room of Dr. Ellen Pierce's fertility clinic, a room painted in calming shades of seafoam green and soft grey. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and hope, a sharp, almost metallic scent that always made Abby's stomach clench. Today, the hope was real, tangible. She held a manila folder tight against her chest, the edges bent and softened from weeks of anxious handling. Inside was the list: the five potential donors, all meticulously vetted, all screened for everything from genetic anomalies to musical talent.
"Abby, welcome back," Dr. Pierce said, her smile professional but warm. "Ready for the big decision?"
Abby took a deep, shaky breath, settling into the plush leather chair. She smoothed the skirt of her navy pencil dress. Even here, facing the biggest personal decision of her life, she wore her corporate armor. "As ready as I'll ever be, Doctor. I've narrowed it down to one."
"Tell me about him."
Abby didn't open the folder. She had memorized the profile, not just the stats, but the little details that had sealed her choice. "Donor 476. Six feet, two inches. Brown hair, green eyes. Ivy League education, business degree, actually. He's listed as an 'Established Corporate Consultant.'" She paused, a dry smile touching her lips. "He's apparently brilliant, emotionally stable, and completely anonymous."
Dr. Pierce nodded, making a note. "A solid choice. Healthy, high-quality sample. No red flags. The anonymity is absolute, as you know. Are you sure about this, Abby? This is a huge step."
Abby's gaze drifted to the window, watching the endless stream of yellow taxis rush through the Manhattan streets below. The noise was muffled, just a quiet hum of the city that she had conquered with her own determination. Sure? No, she wasn't sure. She was terrified.
But what's the alternative? she thought fiercely. Waiting for a man who might not exist? Waiting for conditional love to blossom into unconditional security? Her biological clock was a siren, screaming in her ear every time she saw a stroller. Her promotion to Director of Operations at Sterling Holdings was secure. Her bank accounts were robust. Her apartment was perfect. The only blank space was the empty nursery. This felt like the only way to guarantee her dream.
"Yes," Abby said, her voice firm. "I am sure. Donor 476 is the one. Let's schedule the procedure."
Two days later, the stark reality of her corporate life slammed back into her.
Abby was hunched over her laptop at 7 AM, the quiet efficiency of her pre-work routine already shattered. She was trying to finalize a presentation for the board when the email landed in her inbox. It was a firm, two-line summons from the one person at Sterling Holdings whose name alone could curdle the expensive coffee in her mug: Liam Sterling.
Subject: Immediate Attendance Required
Abby, My office. 7:30 AM sharp. Bring the Q4 projections and a detailed report on the Hudson Acquisition failure.
A low groan escaped her. Liam Sterling. Her boss. The CEO. A man carved from granite and ambition, whose office was a silent, rarefied zone of power where sunlight dared not intrude. He was notoriously demanding, ruthlessly intelligent, and possessed a glacial charisma that intimidated everyone, especially her.
She had done everything to remain invisible to him, a flawlessly efficient cog in his well-oiled machine. Her work was impeccable, her reports were flawless, and her interaction with him was limited to three precise words: "Yes, Mr. Sterling." "No, Mr. Sterling." "Done, Mr. Sterling."
She checked the time. 7:15 AM. She scrambled to print the requested documents. The Hudson Acquisition failure wasn't my fault, she mentally argued, running a hand through her perfectly styled blonde hair. I specifically flagged the risk in the due diligence! But arguing with Liam Sterling was like arguing with a hurricane; it was pointless, and you'd only end up drenched and exposed.
At exactly 7:30 AM, Abby stood outside the reinforced mahogany door of the CEO's penthouse office. She tapped the door lightly, the sound swallowed by the deep pile carpet.
"Enter." The voice was deep, resonant, and clipped.
Liam Sterling stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a dizzying view of lower Manhattan. He was everything his profile suggested: tall, with thick brown hair that looked perpetually wind-tossed, and an expensive, tailored suit molded to his impossibly broad shoulders. His green eyes, the exact shade of sea glass on a stormy day, were currently narrowed on a complex spreadsheet projected onto the wall.
He didn't look up immediately. Abby felt that familiar wave of professional anxiety, the kind that reminded her she was merely an employee in his vast financial kingdom.
"Abby. You're precisely on time. Close the door." His voice commanded the room.
She did as instructed, taking a position near the massive, dark wood conference table. The room was cold, minimalist, and silent, save for the faint tap of his expensive pen against the glass.
"The Q4 numbers are excellent, Abby. Your management of the Asia-Pacific division has been flawless. That acquisition alone increased our quarterly net profit by 12%. Well done."
Abby blinked. A compliment? From Liam Sterling? "Thank you, Mr. Sterling. We had a great team."
He finally turned, and the intensity of his gaze made her feel scrutinized, like a piece of art being appraised. His eyes swept over her, not with appreciation, but with cold calculation.
"And that's why the Hudson failure is so egregious," he continued. "The Hudson Acquisition was a disaster. We lost nearly fifty million. Your team led the analysis. Explain why your risk assessment failed to capture the leverage debt issue."
Abby's professional calm snapped back instantly. She set her folder down with a sharp thud.
"Mr. Sterling, with respect, my team's assessment was the only one that flagged the debt issue. I submitted a four-page addendum detailing the risk to Mr. Davis a week before the final sign-off. I can print the email chain for you right now, sir. The failure was not in the analysis; the failure was in the oversight from the Senior Leadership team that ignored it."
A muscle twitched in Liam's jaw.
"Davis is gone, Abby. As of this morning. He was incompetent." Liam walked toward the table, his movements controlled and predatory. "I need to know why his failure to read an attachment led to a fifty-million-dollar hole in my company. And I need to know what you will do to ensure that I am never blindsided again."
"I will personally present the red-flag report to you before any document goes to the executive committee," Abby said, meeting his gaze. "You will never be blindsided by this department again."
Liam stared at her for a long moment, then nodded.
"Good. Now let's talk about the next quarter. I want you to head the new Strategic Integration team. It's a promotion. More risk. More responsibility. And much closer proximity to me." He paused. "Do you think you can handle that?"
"Yes, Mr. Sterling," Abby said. "I can handle it."
She didn't know then that the man who had just promoted her was Donor 476.
The man she had just chosen to be the father of her child.