Page 1 of Embrace Me Forever

PROLOGUE

Chiltern Hills, England – two years ago

“How does it feel to be unemployed?” my boyfriend, Sebastian, banters as I set a grocery bag on the kitchen bench.

“Weird, but liberating,” I reply, juggling a couple of unruly apples that threaten to escape. “I’m just glad I’m done with Bertram.”

Last week, I finally resigned from the insurance giant. My sister had warned me about insurance companies, calling them ‘soul-sucking leviathans from the depths of corporate hell.’ But the money was too good to pass up, and after having lived on funds thinner than a shoestring, I was desperate.

Sebastian steps behind me, his chin nestling on my shoulder. “I should follow suit,” he murmurs.

“They’re evil,” I conclude, and he hums in agreement. He’s tried to find a new job, but every interview ends the same—rejection. It’s like Bertram has blacklisted him.

Tonight, we’re at our usual hideaway. It’s far more secure than any secret treehouse—and treehouses don’t come with Wi-Fi and a fully stocked mini-fridge.

This one-bedroom cottage, a refuge away from his London city apartment, used to be where he escaped into his games. Just over a year ago, I had arrived in England from my home in Georgia, searching for a new adventure. Those nights when we only knew each other through our avatars and usernames seem so distant now. Back then, we were just voices in each other’s headphones, laughing and strategizing through virtual battles.

“Well, I may need to mooch off you for…money.” I raise a brow, a small smile playing on my lips.

He strides over to my side, chuckling. “Blimey. As long as you don’t expect a hefty allowance.”

My mouth twists as I unpack the dinner ingredients. “You know I’m pretty low maintenance,” I answer his challenge.

“I know, babe. That’s why I stick around.”

I bump my hip against his as I lay out the pot, pan, and other gadgets on the kitchen bench. The neat arrangement earns an approving smile from him. People would probably call us OCD, but we enjoy order, even in the smallest things. We often joke that our relationship is built on a foundation of binary code and mathematical theorems.

He takes over the onions and lets me handle the tomatoes instead. As he starts chopping, he asks, “So, girl who knows the future, what do you see for us?”

“Please don’t call me that.” I sigh. My boss coined that nickname, and I didn’t protest because I wanted to keep my job.

Actuarial science, a skill I picked up while working at Bertram, uses math and statistics to evaluate risk in insurance and finance. It’s all about probability. Algorithms help us crunch massive amounts of data to predict everything from car accidents to life expectancies. I loved the challenge and precision of it all, but there was a darker side.

I planned to stay at Bertram for a couple of years, build up my savings, then quit and travel around Europe. At twenty-two,fresh out of college, I made a rookie mistake, thinking my work would lead to a change for good. But my sister was right to call them soul-sucking. Bertram was using my actuarial predictions to manipulate premiums and claims.

The algorithms I designed were intended to create a fairer, more transparent system. Instead, Bertram exploited them. The final straw came when I discovered they were targeting vulnerable customers, those least likely to challenge unfair decisions.

Seeing my tense face, Sebastian apologizes. “Sorry. Not the most tactful way to ask how you see our future together.”

“Are you sick of us keeping a low profile?” My voice strains against the rhythmic chopping of the tomatoes.

He puts down his knife, wiping away onion tears. Turning to me, he makes me pause as well. “If I’m being straight with you, yeah, I am. But more than that, I can’t stand seeing you swamped with guilt. That program’s been eating you alive.”

“Quitting is the first step, right?” I say with a half-smile. “How about we kick off this milestone by enjoying my lazy days?”

Sebastian wraps his arms around me, giving my backside a squeeze. “Sure, nothing says love like watching your sexy arse move while you rustle up something delicious.”

I hum. There’s something almost poetic about the way he says arse, especially when his hands glide to that exact spot on my body. Next, he leans into me, lifting my breasts with his chest.

I let out a whimper, and immediately, Sebastian loosens his grip. “Hey, sorry, did I hurt you?”

It does hurt—but it’s me, not him. I place my hand on his cheek as I contemplate whether to tell him right now or stick with my surprise plot.

“Babe, what is it?” Worry pushes his brows to knit together. While his concern grows, I feel as jittery as a rabbit in a carrot patch.

To hell with my plot! “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, he just stares at me, eyes wide with shock. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “You’re…you’re not having me on, are you?”

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