Behind the Scenes of Fame: Pregnant by the Rockstar

Manuela’s POV

They say I, Manuela Romanova, was loved for the first three years of my life. At least, that’s what I was told. I don’t remember any of it—kids don’t hold onto memories that young. Still, I clung to those stories like a lifeline, something to keep me going, or I’d have drowned in grief and pain.

My life was a mess. My own family rejected me, treating me like a servant, saddled with keeping the house in order. But I pressed on, because I believed things could always be worse—like if I’d never been adopted and spent my days in an orphanage, never knowing what a home even felt like.

A year ago, I caught my fiancé, Dominic—now my boss at the Hotel Bali, where I work as a maid—in my own bed, tangled up with my sister. I ended things, but I still had to answer to him at work, enduring his relentless harassment and his twisted insistence that I owed him my virginity because I was still “untouched” and he’d “wasted time” on me. Dominic convinced me his betrayal was my fault for never letting him touch me. For a long time, I bought into his lies.

I suffered because I cared for him. But his cruelty after the betrayal slowly choked out those feelings, leaving behind a raw ache and the certainty that we’d never reconcile. In the end, it was just another rejection, one more in a long line I’d grown used to. It wasn’t just Dominic—my sisters, my mother, life itself seemed to push me away.

Still, every morning I dragged myself out of bed with a smile, ready to face the world with a heart full of stubborn hope. Things couldn’t get worse than this, right? I was already at rock bottom. But I was breathing, I had a roof over my head, and I was healthy enough to work. For that, I was grateful.

I stretched in bed and glanced at the clock—it was 5:01 a.m. One minute past my alarm, and I was still lying there, doing nothing. I couldn’t afford to do nothing.

Some people wake up, cross themselves, and pray for a good day. Not me. I’d gaze at the Fred Hunt poster plastered on the wall across from my bed and worship him instead. Then I’d whisper, “God, keep this man safe and, one day, let our paths cross.”

I took a deep breath and peeked through the sliver of my window. Dawn was breaking. I trudged down to the second floor for a quick shower—the nearest bathroom. Then I climbed back to the attic, my so-called bedroom, in the house I called home. They say I once slept in my parents’ room, in a crib by their bed. I don’t remember that either.

There were only three bedrooms in the house. My mother had one, my two sisters claimed the others. My best friend thought it was outrageous that I was stuck in a cramped, damp attic with a musty smell and a tiny window that barely let in air. To me, it could’ve been worse—like if my mother decided the basement was my place.

I slipped into my uniform and headed downstairs to the kitchen on the first floor, next to the living room, powder room, and laundry area. I started the coffee and set the table for three. Once the coffee was ready, I poured it into a thermos to keep it hot—nobody deserves lukewarm coffee. I arranged the table with bread I’d baked the night before and some cornstarch cookies I’d learned to make from the hotel’s cook.

As I headed for the door, my sister Carly appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked at me and yawned. “Where’re you off to, maid?”

I was never sure if her calling me “maid” was a joke or if she genuinely saw me as the help.

“Work,” I said. “Like I do every day.”

“Hmm… I forget you even live here sometimes.” She shrugged and started down the stairs.

“But I do.”

If I didn’t, she wouldn’t have food, electricity, water, or clean clothes.

“What’re you doing up so early?” I asked. Carly rarely stirred before ten.

“Smelled the coffee.”

“Just made it,” I said with a smile. “And some cornstarch cookies. Hope you like them.”

She wandered into the kitchen, and as I opened the door, she called out, munching on a cookie, “Why didn’t you make these today?”

“They’re fresh. I baked them last night when I got home.”

“Don’t make them a day ahead anymore. My stomach’s sensitive. You know I can’t eat stale stuff.”

“They’re not stale… I made them just a few hours ago.”

“I want them fresh next time. Get up earlier and serve them warm.”

“You’d never eat them warm—you sleep too late.”

“Watch your tone, Manuela.”

“I’m just… being honest.”

“Nobody asked for your honesty. Spare me your commentary.”

“Carly, do you hear yourself? I made the cookies, set the table, brewed the coffee… and you’re still complaining?”

“You live here for free. You’re just doing your job. Understand why Dominic didn’t want you and begged for me? You’re pathetic, Manuela. Pitiful. I don’t think Mom should let you use our last name. It tarnishes our family’s dignity.”

I swallowed hard and didn’t reply. I stepped outside and closed the door, knowing she’d crawl back to bed. By the time I got home, there wouldn’t be a single cookie left—they’d devour everything and leave the dishes for me to clean.

My best friend, Simone, used to joke that I was Cinderella. I tried to hold onto that fairy tale, hoping one day I’d find my own Prince Charming—my Fred—who’d whisk me away from this life.

I had a house, a family, but not a home. Unlike Cinderella, my mother, Irene Romanova, wasn’t a stepmother—she was the woman who adopted me as a newborn. She and my father waited years on an adoption list and, supposedly, were overjoyed when I arrived.

But before I turned three, my mother miraculously got pregnant after years of failed treatments. According to Simone’s grandmother, Claudia, that’s when the Romanovas started pretending I didn’t exist. Claudia and Simone were our neighbors. Still, things could’ve been worse—like if I’d grown up in an orphanage. I’d heard horror stories about the one nearby.

I knew fairy tales were just stories. My life had no fairy godmother, no glimmer of hope. While my mother gave everything to my sisters, I was left to work—both at the hotel and at home. I’d been supporting them since my mother injured her leg and couldn’t work anymore. Every penny I earned went to keeping the house running. I had nothing left for myself.

My father passed away a few years ago. He wasn’t kind to me, but he was better than my mother. Drowning in debt, he left us only the house. My mother worked for a while until her injury forced her to stop, and I had to drop out of school to find a job. That’s how I ended up as a maid at the Hotel Bali.