Updated Dec 2, 2025 • ~9 min read
The call came on a Tuesday morning while Knox was teaching his community college art class.
Julia’s name flashed on his screen. He normally wouldn’t answer during class, but something made him step into the hallway.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“No.” Julia’s voice was tight. “Can you meet me? I’m at the office but I need—I need to not be here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Knox gave his students a sketching assignment and left, his heart pounding the entire subway ride to Adams Enterprises headquarters.
Julia was waiting in the lobby, wearing a power suit and an expression that made Knox want to punch whoever had upset her.
“Walk with me?” she said.
They left the building, walking aimlessly through downtown. Julia didn’t speak for three blocks.
Finally: “My father leaked our relationship to the press.”
Knox stopped walking. “He what?”
“Not directly. He’d never be that obvious. But someone at the company—someone loyal to him—made sure a photo of us leaving the gallery opening ended up in the business section. With speculation about Adams Enterprises’ CEO dating an ‘unknown artist’ while pregnant with a donor baby.”
“Julia—”
“The stock dropped two percent this morning. Two percent. Because apparently shareholders are concerned about my ‘judgment’ during this ‘delicate time.'” Julia’s voice was bitter. “My assistant fielded seventeen calls before noon. Board members wanting to know if I was stable enough to continue leading the company. Investors questioning whether I should take an extended leave.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s business.” Julia sank onto a bench overlooking the river. “And my father orchestrated all of it. He won’t admit it, but I know. This is his way of showing me what happens when I don’t listen to his advice.”
Knox sat beside her, rage building in his chest. “He’s using your company against you?”
“It’s not really my company. It’s the Adams family empire, and I’m just the current steward. If the board loses confidence in me, they can vote for new leadership. My father could engineer a coup and I’d have almost no recourse.”
“Would he actually do that?”
Julia was quiet for a long moment. “A month ago, I would have said no. Now? I don’t know. He’s convinced I’m making mistakes. That being pregnant and single makes me vulnerable to opportunists.”
“He thinks I’m an opportunist.”
“He thinks everyone is an opportunist.” Julia leaned into Knox’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem. I shouldn’t have called you in the middle of your class.”
“Don’t apologize. This absolutely is my problem. We’re together, which means your problems are my problems.”
Julia turned to look at him. “Are we? Together together? Because we’ve never actually defined this and with everything happening, I need to know—”
Knox kissed her. Right there on the bench overlooking the river with early afternoon foot traffic streaming past.
When they pulled apart, Julia was smiling for the first time that morning.
“Was that an answer?” she asked.
“That was me saying I’m all in. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes—I’m here.”
“Even with my nightmare father and my stock-dropping scandal and my rapidly approaching due date?”
“Especially with all that.”
Julia rested her forehead against his. “I love you. Even though I probably shouldn’t, even though it’s too fast and too complicated, I really love you.”
“I love you too.”
They sat there for a while, watching boats move along the river, not solving anything but at least facing it together.
“I need to go back,” Julia said eventually. “There’s a board meeting at three. Damage control.”
“Want me to come with you? Moral support?”
“God, no. Corporate politics are bad enough without subjecting you to them.” She stood, straightening her suit. “But thank you. For dropping everything to meet me. For not freaking out about the media attention.”
“I don’t care about media attention.”
“You will when photographers start following you to your studio.”
Knox had a brief, terrifying vision of reporters digging into his life. But he pushed it aside. Standard celebrity journalism was surface-level stuff. No one was going to connect him to a four-year-old sperm donation.
“I can handle it,” he said.
Julia kissed him once more. “I’ll call you tonight. After I’ve survived the board meeting and possibly murdered my father.”
“Try not to commit homicide. It would be bad for the stock price.”
Julia laughed—genuine and surprised—and Knox felt like he’d won something important.
He watched her walk back toward her office building, shoulders squared, ready to fight. She was magnificent.
And she was his.
Knox’s phone buzzed. Aaron: Saw the news. You okay?
Knox: Define okay.
Aaron: This is bad, man. Media attention means scrutiny. Your life is about to become very public.
Knox: I know.
Aaron: Are you sure the clinic records are secure?
Knox stared at the message, his earlier confidence wavering.
Knox: They’re legally protected. HIPAA, anonymity clauses, the whole thing. No journalist is getting access to medical records.
Aaron: And if they don’t need access? If they just ask the right questions to the right people?
Knox: You’re being paranoid.
Aaron: One of us has to be.
Knox pocketed his phone and started walking. He should go back to his class, finish teaching, act like everything was normal.
Instead, he found himself heading home, pulling out his laptop, and Googling himself.
The article Julia mentioned was easy to find:
Adams Heiress Dating Local Artist Amid Pregnancy
The photo showed them leaving the gallery, Julia’s hand in his, both of them smiling. They looked happy. In love.
The article was less kind:
Sources close to Adams Enterprises expressed concern about CEO Julia Adams’s recent relationship with struggling artist Knox Barrow, particularly given Adams’s ongoing pregnancy. “It raises questions about judgment during a vulnerable time,” said one anonymous board member. Shareholders worry about stability at the top while the company navigates crucial expansion deals.
Barrow, 29, has limited commercial success and no apparent connection to Adams’s social circle. The relationship began shortly after Adams announced her pregnancy via anonymous sperm donor, leading some to question…
Knox stopped reading.
Leading some to question what? His motives? Whether he was taking advantage of a pregnant woman? Whether his interest was genuine or financial?
His phone rang. Not Aaron this time. An unknown number.
Knox answered cautiously. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrow? This is Will Hicks from the Metro Daily. I’m doing a piece on you and Ms. Adams. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”
Knox hung up.
The phone rang again immediately. Different number.
He turned it off.
This was what Julia had warned him about. The media circus, the invasive questions, the assumption that he was somehow using her.
Knox looked at the article again. At the photo of them happy and unaware.
I’m not using her, he thought. I love her. I love the baby. This is real.
But was it? How much of his feelings were genuine affection, and how much were rooted in the secret biological connection he couldn’t acknowledge?
If Julia wasn’t pregnant with his baby, would he still feel this intensely?
Knox wanted to believe the answer was yes. But he couldn’t be entirely sure.
His laptop pinged with a new email. The subject line made his blood run cold:
From: Riverside Fertility Clinic
Subject: Updated Privacy Policy
Knox opened it with shaking hands.
Dear Knox Barrow,
As part of our ongoing commitment to donor privacy and in light of recent updates to medical privacy laws, we’re implementing new security protocols for all donor records. You may have received media or third-party inquiries about your donation history. Please be aware that all donor information remains strictly confidential and protected under federal law.
If you have any concerns about privacy or have been contacted by anyone attempting to access your records, please notify us immediately.
Knox read the email three times.
They wouldn’t send this to all donors. This was targeted. Someone had been asking questions about donations. About records.
Brian Adams.
It had to be.
Knox stood up so fast his chair fell over. He needed to talk to Aaron. Needed to figure out if this was just paranoia or an actual threat.
But before he could grab his phone, there was a knock at his door.
Knox froze.
Reporters, he thought. Finding his address was probably trivial.
Another knock, more insistent.
Knox checked the peephole and his heart stopped.
Brian Adams stood in his hallway, looking patient and dangerous.
Knox opened the door because what else could he do?
“Mr. Adams.”
“Knox. May I come in?”
It wasn’t really a question. Brian walked past him into the apartment, taking in the paint-splattered floors, the canvases everywhere, the general chaos of Knox’s life.
“Interesting space,” Brian said neutrally.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk. Privately. Without my daughter present.”
“Julia’s not going to like that.”
“Julia doesn’t need to know.” Brian turned to face him. “I owe you an apology. Dinner the other night was… unnecessarily hostile.”
Knox said nothing, waiting.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Brian continued. “About what Julia said. About what you said. And I’ve realized I may have been unfair.”
“Okay?”
“So I wanted to extend an olive branch. Take you to lunch. Get to know you properly, without the interrogation.”
Every instinct Knox had screamed that this was a trap.
“Why?”
“Because my daughter loves you. And despite my reservations, her happiness matters to me.” Brian’s expression was unreadable. “So what do you say? Lunch? My treat?”
Knox thought about the email from the clinic. About media scrutiny. About all the ways this could go wrong.
“When?” he heard himself ask.
“Tomorrow. One o’clock. I’ll send you the details.”
Brian left without waiting for confirmation, like Knox’s agreement was foregone.
Knox closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding.
This was bad.
This was very, very bad.
Because men like Brian Adams didn’t offer olive branches.
They set traps.
And Knox had just agreed to walk right into one.
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