Chapter 6: The Man in the Gray Hoodie

The first thing I noticed was the smell of coffee. Not the cheap, burnt kind from my ancient drip machine, but something rich and dark, with a hint of vanilla. I blinked, disoriented, and found myself staring at a ceiling I didn't recognize. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, the pillows plush.

Then it all came flooding back. The penthouse. The deal. The *pregnancy clause* text I hadn't stopped thinking about all night.

I padded out of the guest suite—my new "room"—and followed the scent to the open-concept kitchen. Adrian stood at the marble island, his back to me, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips. His shoulder blades shifted as he poured steaming liquid into two mugs. The morning light caught the muscles of his back, and I hated that my traitorous heart still skipped a beat.

"You're up early," he said without turning around. "The baby likes to kick at 5 AM, doesn't he? Or she."

I froze. "How did you—"

"I heard you pacing last night. Thin walls in this place, believe it or not." He finally turned, and there was something soft in his expression I'd never seen before. "I made you a latte. Decaf. And there's avocado toast with the sourdough you like from that café near your old apartment."

My mouth went dry. "You remembered that?"

"I remember everything about you, Mia." He slid the mug toward me, his fingers brushing mine. Sparks. Damn it. "Even the things I shouldn't."

I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, desperate for something to ground me. "About this 'pregnancy clause'—"

"Is the coffee okay? I used oat milk. You mentioned you were trying it."

He was deflecting. I opened my mouth to push, but a strange sound came from the baby monitor on the counter—a soft, fussy cry. Adrian's entire demeanor shifted. He grabbed the monitor with practiced ease, the way a man who'd done this a hundred times would.

"Speaking of the little monster," he said, a grin tugging at his lips. "My turn."

"Your turn?"

"Last night was yours. I took the 2 AM and 4 AM feedings." He shrugged like it was nothing. "You need your rest. Growing a human is exhausting."

I stood there, stunned, as he disappeared into the nursery adjacent to the master bedroom. Through the half-open door, I watched him lift the baby—our baby—with such tender care. He cradled the tiny head in one palm, murmuring something I couldn't hear. The baby's cries subsided instantly.

My chest ached. This wasn't the Adrian I knew. The Adrian I knew didn't do 4 AM feedings. He didn't remember café preferences or make decaf lattes. He certainly didn't have a nursery already furnished with a state-of-the-art crib and a glider rocking chair.

When he emerged twenty minutes later, the baby swaddled against his chest, he caught me staring. "What?"

"You... you know how to do this."

"Google is a hell of a drug." He smiled, but there was something vulnerable underneath. "And I had a lot of sleepless nights to research while you were gone. I wanted to be ready."

"Adrian, you didn't even know I was—"

"I knew." The words came out rough, raw. "I knew the night you left. I found the pregnancy test in your trash can. I just... I didn't know how to find you. You changed your number, your apartment, everything. I hired three private investigators over the past year. They all came up empty."

I gripped the counter, my knuckles white. "You looked for me?"

"Every single day." He stepped closer, and the baby cooed softly between us. "I told myself it was about the money, the inheritance, the company. But it was never about that, Mia. It was about waking up without you. About coming home to an empty penthouse that used to smell like your vanilla shampoo."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But the text from last night burned in my memory. *Ask him about the pregnancy clause.*

"What's in the contract?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "About the pregnancy?"

Something flickered in his eyes. A shadow. "It's just standard legal stuff. Custody terms if things go south."

"Adrian."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's a clause that says if you try to leave the country with the baby before he's six months old, I get full custody. Automatically. No court hearing."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "You're trapping me here."

"I'm protecting my son!" His voice rose, then softened as the baby stirred. "I'm protecting what's mine. And, Mia..." He looked at me with those impossibly blue eyes. "You're mine. You always have been."

The doorbell rang before I could respond. Adrian handed me the baby with surprising gentleness and went to answer it. A moment later, he returned holding a massive bouquet of white roses—my favorite.

"These are from me," he said, setting them on the counter. "To welcome you home."

I stared at the flowers, at the man, at the baby in my arms. This was a trap. It had to be. But as the morning sun flooded the penthouse and Adrian knelt beside me, whispering silly nonsense to our son, I felt the cracks in my armor splintering.

"Let me prove it to you," he said softly, his hand covering mine. "Give me one month. If you still think I'm the same heartless bastard by then, I'll sign away every claim I have. You can take the baby and go. No clause. No games."

The baby grabbed his finger with a tiny fist, and Adrian's breath caught.

"One month," I repeated.

"One month."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, heart racing, and saw the message:

*"He's lying. Ask him about the night of the gala—why he really called you there. Ask him about the recording. Then decide if one month is enough."*

I looked up at Adrian, at the hope in his eyes, at the innocent life cradled between us.

What had I just agreed to?