Chapter 2: The Morning After the Storm

I woke to the sound of a key card sliding through the lock.

My eyes snapped open, heart hammering against my ribs. The sheets beside me were cold. Empty. The indentation of his body was already fading, like a ghost imprint on the mattress.

Adrian was gone.

I sat up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, and tried to piece together the wreckage of last night. The gala. The champagne. The way his hands had found my waist in the crowd, pulling me into the elevator with a hunger that had left me breathless.

And then... this suite. The 47th floor of the Blackwood Grand. His penthouse.

I pressed my palms to my eyes. God, what had I done? I was Mia Hartley, the girl who planned everything to the decimal point. The one who made spreadsheets for her grocery list. And I had just spent the night with the most notorious playboy in Manhattan—a man whose face graced tabloid covers with a different supermodel on his arm every week.

A man I'd known for exactly six hours.

The door clicked open, and a hotel attendant stepped in, pushing a silver cart. "Good morning, miss. Mr. Blackwood requested your breakfast be served at nine."

I pulled the sheet up to my chin. "He's... not here?"

"Mr. Blackwood left early this morning for a flight to Tokyo. He asked me to give you this."

She placed a thick cream envelope on the nightstand, embossed with the Blackwood crest. My stomach dropped as I reached for it, fingers trembling. Inside was a stack of hundred-dollar bills. At least ten thousand dollars.

And a note, scrawled in sharp, arrogant handwriting:

*Mia—Last night was unforgettable. Buy yourself something pretty. —A*

Something pretty.

The words hit me like a slap. A cold, brutal awakening that washed away every lingering trace of warmth from the night before. I had given him everything, and he had left me a tip. Like I was a call girl. Like I was nothing but another conquest to be paid and forgotten.

I crumpled the note in my fist, my eyes burning with humiliation. The attendant stood there, awkwardly shuffling her feet.

"Is there anything else, miss?"

"No," I whispered. "There's nothing."

I gathered my dress from the floor, the gown I'd spent a month's salary on, and dressed in silence. I left the cash on the nightstand—every single bill. I wouldn't touch his money. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

But as I walked through the marble lobby, past the cameras flashing outside, I knew one thing for certain: I would never let Adrian Blackwood make me feel this way again. I would forget him. I would erase every trace of him from my memory.

I was wrong.

---

**Eight Weeks Later**

The pregnancy test sat on my bathroom counter, mocking me with its two pink lines.

I stared at it for what felt like hours, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Two pink lines. Positive. Pregnant.

I sank to the cold tile floor, clutching the test to my chest. My mind raced, spinning through the possibilities. This couldn't be real. I had taken the pill the morning after... I had been careful...

But the lines didn't lie. I was carrying Adrian Blackwood's baby.

I laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that echoed off the bathroom walls. Of course. Of course the one time in my life I'd been reckless, the universe decided to make it count. The father was a billionaire playboy who probably couldn't remember my name. The man who had paid me like I was nothing.

My hand drifted to my still-flat stomach. There was a life inside me. A tiny, fragile life that was half mine and half his.

I could tell him. The thought flickered through my mind like a dangerous spark. I could call his office, demand an audience. He had the resources to take care of us. To give this baby everything.

But the image of that envelope—that stack of bills—burned in my memory. I had been a one-night stand to Adrian Blackwood. A pretty diversion. What would he do if I showed up at his door with a baby bump? He'd probably write me a bigger check and send me on my way. Or worse—he'd fight for custody, and I'd lose my child to a man who saw love as a transaction.

No. I couldn't risk it.

Slowly, deliberately, I stood up. I looked at my reflection in the mirror—the same green eyes, the same dark hair, but somehow I looked different. Stronger. I placed my hand over my stomach.

"You and me," I whispered. "We're going to be just fine."

---

**Two Months Later**

The moving truck rumbled to a stop in front of my new apartment in Seattle. I stepped out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, my hand resting protectively over the small swell of my belly. Four months along now. Just starting to show.

I had left everything behind. My job, my apartment, my old life. I had told my mother I was taking a promotion across the country, and she'd believed me. No one knew about the baby. No one knew about Adrian.

As I unlocked the door to my new one-bedroom, I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me. The boxes were unpacked, the nursery corner was set up with a crib I'd assembled myself, and for the first time in months, I could breathe.

This was my life now. Just me and my baby. No billionaires, no secrets, no one to answer to.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed it. A text message from an unknown number, flashing on my phone screen:

*I know where you are, Mia. We need to talk.*

My blood turned to ice. That number. I didn't recognize it, but I knew without a doubt who was on the other end.

Adrian Blackwood had found me.