Updated Dec 11, 2025 • ~6 min read
HANNAH
Six months of marriage. Six months of perfect.
Well. Perfect-ish.
We were still broke. Still fighting legal battles. Still living in Elise’s guest room because we couldn’t afford our own place.
But we were happy. Building King Consulting into something real. Taking clients. Making money. Actually surviving.
“We’re profitable,” Tristan announced at our monthly meeting. “For the first time. Actual black ink.”
Oliver and I high-fived like kids.
“How profitable?” I asked.
“Enough to rent an office. Maybe even an apartment that’s not Elise’s guest room.”
“Elise will be heartbroken,” I said.
“Elise will throw a party,” Oliver corrected. “She’s been dying to get rid of us.”
It was true. We’d overstayed our welcome by approximately five and a half months.
That night, Oliver took me apartment hunting. Tiny places in Brooklyn. Nothing like the penthouse. But ours.
“This one has a dishwasher,” I said, checking out a one-bedroom.
“Sold. We’ll take it.”
“Oliver, you haven’t even seen the lease—”
“Has dishwasher. That’s all I need to know.” He pulled me close. “Besides. Anywhere we’re together is perfect.”
“That’s sappy.”
“That’s married life. You’re supposed to like it.”
We signed the lease that week. Moved in with furniture from IKEA and dishes from Target and absolutely zero shame about our downgrade from billionaire lifestyle.
“I love it,” I said, standing in our empty living room.
“It’s eight hundred square feet.”
“It’s ours.”
Oliver kissed me. “Best eight hundred square feet in the city.”
Work picked up. We landed a major client—tech startup needing strategy consulting. Then another. Then three more.
Suddenly we weren’t just surviving. We were thriving.
“I think we’re actually going to make it,” I told Oliver one night.
“You doubted?”
“Constantly. Daily. Every time I looked at our bank account.”
“Ye of little faith.”
“Ye of too much optimism.”
He pulled me onto the couch. Our couch. The one we’d picked out together at a Labor Day sale.
“You know what we should do?” he said.
“Pay off our remaining legal bills?”
“Besides that. We should start your event planning company.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your dream. Remember? The thing you’ve wanted since before you met me. Let’s do it.”
“Oliver, we can barely afford this apartment—”
“So we start small. Use our network. Leverage King Consulting’s reputation. You plan events for our clients. Build a portfolio. Grow it slowly.”
My heart raced. “You’re serious.”
“Completely serious. I’ve watched you coordinate our office, manage our clients, organize Tristan’s nightmare of a calendar. You’re brilliant at this. Let’s make it official.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Next week. Whenever you’re ready.”
I looked at him. At this man who’d given up everything to choose me. Who kept finding ways to give me more.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s do it.”
OLIVER
Hannah started Whitman Events two weeks later.
Operated out of our apartment. One employee: her. One client: Tristan’s tech startup needed a launch party.
She crushed it.
Within a month, she had five clients. Within two, fifteen. By month three, she was making more money than King Consulting.
“I think I married a business genius,” I told Tristan.
“You married a woman who actually knows how to close sales. There’s a difference.”
Fair point.
I watched Hannah build her dream from our eight-hundred-square-foot apartment and fell in love with her all over again. The determination. The creativity. The way she made every client feel like they were her only priority.
She was magical.
“We should celebrate,” I said after she booked her twentieth client.
“Celebrate how? We’re still paying off legal bills.”
“The Richard Ashton lawsuit settled last week. Remember?”
She stopped. “It did?”
“For five million. Which sounds like a lot, but compared to the twenty million he wanted? Victory.” I pulled out my phone. “And I have a surprise.”
I showed her the listing. A loft in SoHo. Two bedrooms. Office space. Room to grow.
“Oliver, we can’t afford—”
“We can. Barely. If we’re smart. And if Whitman Events keeps growing at this rate.” I kissed her temple. “We’re not broke anymore, Hannah. We’re not rich. But we’re okay. We’re more than okay.”
She was crying. “When did our life become normal?”
“Is this normal? I don’t remember normal including event planning and consulting and lawsuits and near bankruptcy.”
“It’s our normal.”
“Then I love our normal.”
We moved into the loft. Furnished it slowly. Bought art from street vendors. Thrifted furniture and refinished it ourselves.
Built a home that was nothing like my old penthouse and everything like happiness.
HANNAH
Eleven months of marriage. Eleven months of building.
And then the pregnancy test came back positive.
I stared at it. Stared at the two lines. Stared at the future I hadn’t planned for.
We’d been careful. Mostly careful. Careful-ish.
Apparently not careful enough.
“Hannah?” Oliver’s voice from the other room. “You okay?”
I hid the test. “Fine. Just—give me a minute.”
A baby. We were going to have a baby.
We couldn’t afford a baby. We were barely managing two people. How were we supposed to handle three?
“Hannah?”
I opened the bathroom door. Found Oliver looking concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” I pulled out the test. “This.”
He looked at it. Looked at me. “You’re pregnant.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“We’re having a baby.”
“We’re having a baby.”
Silence. Long. Terrifying.
Then Oliver smiled. Full brilliant smile that lit up his entire face.
“We’re having a baby!”
“Oliver, we can’t afford—”
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.” He pulled me close. Kissed me. “Hannah, we’re having a baby. Our baby. This is incredible.”
“This is terrifying—”
“It’s both. That’s okay.” He pressed his hand to my still-flat stomach. “Hi, baby. I’m your dad. I’m going to mess this up spectacularly. But I’m going to love you so much.”
I was crying. “You want this?”
“I want everything with you. Babies. Chaos. Sleepless nights. All of it.” He kissed me again. “We’re going to be parents.”
“We’re going to be terrible at this.”
“Probably. But we’ll be terrible together.”
“That’s the most unromantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Wait until you hear my thoughts on diaper duty.”
I laughed. Kissed him. Let myself believe for one perfect moment that everything would be okay.
That we could handle this. That love was enough.
But life had other plans.
Because three weeks later, everything started falling apart.
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