They spoke for a few more minutes, and when Abigail walked out into the sunshine, she felt lighter. That evening, chopping vegetables in her small kitchen, she found her thoughts drifting back to Michael’s kind eyes and the way he had asked about her safety. It had been a lifetime since a man had prioritized her well-being.
The following weeks introduced a new complication. Brandon had started calling again. His voicemails swung wildly between apologetic pleas and entitled demands. He sent extravagant floral arrangements to her building, which Abigail promptly walked over to her elderly neighbor’s apartment.
He even appeared at her front gate twice, but she refused to buzz him in, speaking only through the intercom to direct him to her lawyer. Matters came to a head when Cassandra got involved.
Abigail was exiting a coffee shop one crisp afternoon when she found her path blocked by Brandon’s fiancée. Cassandra was exactly as the social pages described her: statuesque, blonde, and dressed in designer labels that screamed wealth. But up close, Abigail saw a tremor of insecurity in the woman’s posture. Her blue eyes were cold, yet desperate.
“So, you are the ex-wife,” Cassandra sneered, looking Abigail up and down. “The one trying to trap Brandon with a convenient pregnancy.”
Abigail felt a flash of heat, but she kept her voice level.
“I am not trying to trap anyone. Brandon and I are divorced. What he does with his life is none of my concern.”
Cassandra stepped closer, invading Abigail’s personal bubble.
“You think having his baby makes you special? You think he’ll come running back? Brandon loves me. We are getting married next month, and we are going to have the perfect life. You and your little mistake aren’t going to ruin that.”
Abigail could have decimated her. She could have mentioned that Cassandra had been the mistress. She could have pointed out that Brandon had complained Cassandra refused to ruin her figure with pregnancy. Instead, Abigail smiled, realizing that Cassandra’s aggression was born of fear.
“I hope you both are very happy together,” she said with genuine sincerity. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a doctor’s appointment.”
She sidestepped the woman and walked away, leaving Cassandra sputtering on the sidewalk. The encounter left Abigail trembling, and when she arrived at the clinic, Michael immediately clocked her distress.
“What happened?” he asked, bypassing the exam room to guide her into his private office.
Abigail told him everything. The history with Brandon, the cruelty, the divorce, and the ambush by Cassandra. The words poured out like water from a burst dam. Michael listened intently, never interrupting. When she finally fell silent, he sat quietly for a moment, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
He stood up and removed his white coat, hanging it on the back of his chair—a deliberate, symbolic gesture.
“Abigail,” he started, his voice serious. “I have just sent a message to the front desk. I am officially transferring your care to my colleague, Dr. Evans. She is excellent and she will take over your file starting this minute.”
Abigail blinked, confusion washing over her.
“Is… is something wrong? Did I do something?”
“No,” Michael said softly, rounding the desk to stand in front of her. “But I cannot be your doctor anymore. Because ethically, a doctor cannot ask his patient out on a date. And I would very much like to take you to dinner. Not as Dr. Torres, but as Michael. Someone who wants to know you.”
Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t entertained the thought of dating. Who would want a pregnant, divorced woman with this much baggage? But looking at Michael, stripped of his professional barrier and offering honest hope, she heard herself say, “Yes.”
Their first date was at a tucked-away Italian trattoria. Michael picked her up, opening the car door and ensuring she was comfortable. Over steaming plates of pasta, they bypassed small talk and went deep.
Michael spoke of his reason for becoming a doctor—losing his mother to cancer during medical school and how it shaped his philosophy.
“I realized healing isn’t just treating symptoms,” he said, twirling fettuccine on his fork. “It’s treating the whole person—mind, body, spirit. That’s why I love obstetrics. I get to be part of the most pivotal moment in a family’s life.”
Abigail opened up about her art. She told him how she had abandoned painting because Brandon deemed it “unsuitable” for a woman of his status.
“I do graphic design now, but it’s just work,” she admitted, looking down at the tablecloth. “My real paints… I haven’t touched a brush in five years.”
“Why not?” Michael asked simply.
“Because Brandon said it was a waste of time. That I should focus on being a proper wife.”
Michael reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm, his grip grounding.
“Abigail, you deserve to do the things that make your soul sing. Paint. Create. Live the life you want, not the life someone else scripted for you.”
Tears slipped down Abigail’s cheeks. No one had ever validated her dreams like that. Brandon had made her feel small; Michael made her feel limitless. They went on more dates. Michael took her to an art supply store and insisted on buying a professional easel and paints. They wandered the botanical gardens, Abigail sketching orchids while Michael watched her with quiet admiration.
The romance bloomed organically. Michael never pushed; he let Abigail set the tempo, respecting her need to heal. Yet, the attraction was electric. The way his hand lingered on her lower back, the way her pulse raced when he smiled—it was undeniable.
One evening, after a sunset walk by the river, Michael walked her to her apartment door. The air between them crackled. Abigail turned to thank him, but the words died when she saw the look in his eyes.
“Abigail,” he whispered. “May I kiss you?”
She nodded, her throat tight. Michael cupped her face in his hands, treating her like precious porcelain, and kissed her. It was tender, honest, and filled with emotion—nothing like the performative kisses Brandon used to give. When they pulled apart, both were breathless.
“I have wanted to do that for weeks,” Michael admitted, resting his forehead against hers.
“So have I,” she confessed.
Their relationship deepened rapidly. Michael became her anchor. He talked to her belly, telling the baby stories and making promises about future adventures. Watching this successful, masculine man be so gentle with her unborn child melted the last of Abigail’s defenses.
But their bubble was pierced by Brandon’s lawyers. Two weeks before her due date, Abigail received a legal notice. Brandon was filing for joint custody and demanding the baby carry the Whitmore surname. Abigail collapsed on her sofa, sobbing, the papers scattered around her.
Michael found her there and immediately pulled her into his arms.
“We will fight this,” he said, his voice hard with resolve. “You are an incredible mother. No judge is going to take this baby from you.”
“But what if they do?” she wept. “Brandon has money, influence…”
“That won’t happen,” Michael promised.
He pulled back to look her in the eye.
“Abigail, there is something I need to say. I love you. I love you, and I love this baby. I know it’s fast, but some things you just know in your gut. I want to build a life with you. I want to be there for the midnight feedings, the scraped knees, the first words. I want to be the partner you deserve.”
Abigail’s tears shifted from terror to joy.
“I love you too,” she whispered. “I didn’t think I could do this again, but you showed me what real love is.”
Two weeks later, a thunderstorm raged over the city, and Abigail went into labor. Michael, who had been sleeping on her couch despite her protests, was in action instantly. He timed contractions, grabbed the hospital bag, and guided her through the breathing exercises. The drive to the hospital was a blur of rain and lightning, but Michael’s steady hand holding hers kept her grounded.
The labor was grueling—fourteen hours of exhaustion and pain. But Michael never left her side. He wiped her brow, offered ice chips, and whispered encouragement when she felt she couldn’t go on.
Finally, at 4:37 PM, Oliver James Carter entered the world. He weighed seven pounds, three ounces, had a shock of dark hair, and lungs that announced his arrival to the entire floor. When they placed him on Abigail’s chest, the rush of love nearly stopped her heart.
“Hello, Oliver,” she wept. “I am your mama. I have been waiting so long for you.”
Michael stood by the bed, his eyes glistening.
“He is perfect, Abigail. Absolutely perfect.”
The next few days were a blur of nursing, diapers, and wonder. Michael slept in the uncomfortable chair, refusing to leave. He mastered the swaddle and learned to distinguish a hunger cry from a sleepy one. On the second day, Brandon walked in.
Abigail was nursing Oliver when the door swung open. Brandon entered carrying a massive teddy bear and a bouquet of red roses. He froze when he saw Michael in the chair, looking completely at home.
“What is he doing here?” Brandon demanded, his hackles rising.
“Michael is here because I want him here,” Abigail said, her voice calm but steel-edged. “If you want to meet your son, you are welcome. But you will not bring that attitude into this room.”
Brandon’s jaw worked, but he set the gifts down. He approached the bed tentatively, his eyes locking on the bundle in Abigail’s arms. When he saw Oliver’s face, his anger seemed to evaporate, replaced by awe.
“He looks like you,” Brandon said quietly. “He has your nose.”
“Would you like to hold him?” Abigail offered.
It was a moment of grace she wasn’t sure he deserved, but Oliver deserved it. Brandon took his son with trembling hands. For a long minute, the room was silent. Brandon stared at the infant with an expression Abigail had never seen on him—pure, unguarded love mixed with the heavy realization of what he had thrown away.
“I am sorry,” Brandon said, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so sorry, Abigail. For everything. You were right. I was cruel and selfish.”
Abigail nodded. “We cannot change the past, Brandon. But we can do better for Oliver.”
Brandon looked at Michael, then back at Abigail. “Are you going to marry him?”
“That is none of your business,” Michael interjected, polite but firm. “What matters is that Oliver will be raised in a home filled with respect.”
Brandon looked between them and seemed to accept his defeat.
