Chapter 3: The Unexpected Client

Eight months. Two hundred and forty-three days. That was how long I’d been running, and in all that time, I’d convinced myself that Adrian Blackwood was a ghost—a beautiful, dangerous memory I could outrun.

I’d been wrong.

The text message had been a sledgehammer to my fragile peace. I’d changed my number twice since then, moved apartments once more, and thrown myself into work with a desperation that bordered on mania. The bump was undeniable now, a perfect crescent moon beneath my tailored blazer, and the steady kick of tiny feet against my ribs was the only thing that kept me grounded.

So when my boss, Eleanor, called me into her office with a “huge opportunity,” I should have known. I should have smelled the trap.

“Mia, you’ve been killing it,” she said, her eyes gleaming with corporate greed. “The Langham gala was flawless. So I’m putting you on our biggest account yet—Blackwood Industries.”

The name hit me like a physical blow. My hand instinctively flew to my stomach, where little Peanut had gone suspiciously still.

“I—I don’t think I’m ready for that scale,” I stammered, the lie tasting like ash.

Eleanor waved her hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You’re the best I’ve got, and Adrian Blackwood expects nothing less. He’s hosting a charity fundraiser for his late father’s foundation. It’s a massive deal. The contract alone could triple our revenue. You’re in the boardroom at 2 PM sharp.”

The next two hours were a blur of nausea and frantic planning. I could quit. I could walk out right now, disappear again. But where would I go? I was exhausted, heavily pregnant, and running out of savings. The coward’s path was no longer an option.

I smoothed my black maternity dress—elegant, professional, masking everything—and walked into the lion’s den.

The boardroom was all glass and steel, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind a wall of windows. And there he was, at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone with that infuriating, panty-melting intensity I remembered all too well.

Adrian Blackwood was even more devastating than I remembered. His dark hair was slightly longer, artfully tousled. His jaw was sharper, shadowed with a hint of stubble. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my year’s rent, and when he finally looked up—

My heart stopped.

His ice-blue eyes swept over me, utterly devoid of recognition. I was just another corporate drone. A pregnant one, at that. He registered the bump, offered a polite, disinterested smile, and extended his hand.

“Mia, is it? Lovely to meet you. I must say, I’m impressed with your portfolio.”

His handshake was brief, professional. The touch of his skin against mine sent a jolt of electricity through my system, but he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Eight months. He’d spent eight months living his life, fucking his way through Manhattan’s elite, while I’d spent eight months carrying his child, terrified, alone, and desperately in love with a man who didn’t even remember my face.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to grab his hand and press it to my belly and say, *“Look what you did, you arrogant bastard.”*

Instead, I smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. I’m confident we can deliver an event worthy of your family’s legacy.”

The meeting was a masterclass in torture. I detailed color schemes, floral arrangements, and silent auction items while he nodded along, occasionally asking sharp, intelligent questions. He was brilliant, I’d always known that. And he was also utterly oblivious to the fact that the woman standing before him had once moaned his name into silk pillows.

“You have a good eye,” he said, leaning back in his chair. A hint of a smile played at his lips. “Have we met before?”

My blood ran cold. “I don’t believe so.”

“Hmm.” He studied me, his gaze lingering on my face. “You just seem… familiar. Like a dream I can’t quite recall.”

It was the perfect opening. I could tell him. Right here, right now. But then what? He’d probably offer me money—a settlement, a termination of responsibility. He’d want a paternity test. He’d want to control everything, just like he controlled his empire.

And I’d lose my baby.

“I get that a lot,” I lied smoothly. “I have one of those faces.”

He laughed, a low, rich sound that made my knees weak. “I doubt that. Your face is quite memorable.”

The meeting ended. I gathered my files, my hands trembling, desperate to escape before I did something stupid like cry. I was almost at the door when his voice stopped me.

“Mia.”

I froze. “Yes?”

He was standing now, silhouetted against the skyline. “Dinner. Tonight. To discuss the finer details of the event.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. And God help me, eight months of running, eight months of hiding, and my body still remembered how to obey him.

“I have plans,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Cancel them.”

I turned to face him, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. “Mr. Blackwood, I’m eight months pregnant. I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate me having dinner with my client.”

His eyes flickered with something—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. “Then bring him along.”

I had no boyfriend. I had no one. And the lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

“He’s out of town,” I said quickly. “Next week then. I’ll have the preliminary budget ready.”

He nodded slowly, but I could see the gears turning in that brilliant, calculating mind of his. He knew something was off. He just didn’t know what.

“Next week,” he echoed. “I’ll hold you to that, Mia.”

As I fled the boardroom, my hand pressed against the frantic kicking of my baby—*his* baby—I realized the truth with chilling clarity.

Adrian Blackwood didn’t know who I was.

But he wanted to find out.

And my phone buzzed again, another text from that same unknown number: *He doesn’t remember you, does he? Perfect. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll be in touch.*

I’d been running from Adrian for eight months. But whoever this was had been watching me the whole time. And they knew everything.