LOGINKyra** The automatic doors of the clinic slid open with a soft whoosh, letting in warm air and the faint sound of city traffic. I stepped out first, arms crossed, sunglasses low on my nose, my purse clutched a little too tightly. Zaire followed behind, his long strides relaxed but his mind wasn't. We walked in silence toward the parking lot. Both unsure of what to say now that the news had been spoken aloud. I was pregnant. He was the father. And neither of us knew the first damn thing about each other. I stopped at my car, digging for my keys, but my fingers were shaky. Zaire noticed. "You alright?" "I'm fine," I said too fast. He didn't call me on it. Just leaned against the passenger side of my car, watching me with unreadable eyes. "You want me to drive you home?" he asked, low. I scoffed. "No offense, but I still don't know you well enough to let you behind my wheel." Zaire cracked a small smirk. "Fair." I finally looked up at him, crossing my arms
**Kyra** The clinic lobby was exactly as I remembered it, too clean, too white, too cold. Even the air felt sterile, like it didn't want to carry emotion. I sat in the waiting area with my hands folded tightly in my lap, thumb rubbing against the edge of my sweater sleeve. My stomach was in knots. I hadn't slept. Barely ate. Two weeks had felt like two years. Every morning had been a guessing game, was that nausea or nerves? Did my breasts hurt from PMS or something more? I had refused to take a test at home. I needed to hear it from a professional. I needed it to be real, or not real. No guessing. No wishful thinking. The receptionist finally called my name. "Kyra Taylor?" I stood, legs stiff, and followed the nurse into the same hallway, past the same neutral artwork, into the same room where my life had possibly shifted without warning. "You can sit here. Dr. Quinn will be in shortly," the nurse said, offering a kind smile before closing the door behind her. I
Zaire’s pov- By the time the elevator chimed, I was out of the tub and wrapped in a dark gray towel, steam still rising behind me. I padded across the penthouse with slow, measured steps, my phone left behind on the marble bath tray. I opened the door just before Savannah knocked. She walked in like she always did, heels clicking against polished floors, long legs wrapped in a champagne colored trench, lips glossed, skin glowing. Her hair was bone straight tonight, falling over one shoulder. A red designer clutch swung from her hand. "You're always so dramatic with the lighting," she said with a smile, glancing around. "It's giving mood." I didn't say much. Just stepped aside and let her pass. Savannah paused to set her purse down and then turned to face me, her eyes sliding over my towel covered body. "You're quiet." I moved toward the mini bar without responding, pouring myself another bourbon. "You want anything?" I asked. "Yeah, I'll take the usual," she said, sl
Zaire’s pov- My blacked-out Escalade rolled to a slow stop in front of the towering residential building downtown, my sanctuary in the sky. The doorman opened the vehicle door with a respectful nod. "Evening, Mr. Cruz." I nodded, phone pressed to my ear, jaw tight. "Tell them I'll review the proposal in the morning. I'm done for today." I stepped into the building, past marble floors and gold accents, into a private elevator that only required my fingerprint to operate. The doors closed. Silence. I finally let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. By the time the elevator opened into my penthouse, floor to ceiling windows, curated modern art, low lighting, I had already pulled off my tie and tossed it on the marble island in the kitchen. I didn't feel like myself lately. The calls, the meetings, the performance, it all still ran like a machine. But something in me was out of sync. I poured myself a drink, neat bourbon, and sank into the soft leather of
Kyra’s pov- My small apartment was both my sanctuary and my office. Working as a virtual assistant gave me freedom, but the hours were long and the pay tight. Today, like every day for the past two weeks, my laptop sat open on the dining table, notifications buzzing as I managed schedules and emails for clients scattered across time zones. My fingers moved quickly, but my mind was tangled in a different kind of work, the endless mental checklist of the unknown. Every slight ache, every mood swing was magnified. Was this the sign? The calendar on my wall was marked in red, counting down to the day I could take the pregnancy test. I avoided looking at the date too often, afraid of the anxiety that followed. Sometimes I allowed myself to daydream, a tiny baby with my eyes, my laugh, maybe even Zaire's strong jawline. But those moments were fleeting, chased away by the cold weight of reality. I was alone in this. At night, I curled into my worn-out couch, scrolling throug
Kyra’s pov- I barely remembered driving home. The world outside my car window blurred past. Stoplights, people, sunlight. None of it registered. My hands were tight on the wheel, and my heart was lodged firmly in my throat. As soon as I got inside my apartment, I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and slid down to the floor right there in the entryway. I was possibly pregnant. With a stranger’s baby. Except he wasn't just any stranger. He had a face. A name. A low, smooth voice that sent a sudden wave of heat down my spine, even while my head spun with sheer panic. Zaire Cruz. He wasn’t what I had imagined when I chose the word donor. He wasn’t anonymous, and he certainly wasn’t distant. He was real, solid, and infuriatingly calm about the entire nightmare. And now, he was tangled up in a moment I had crafted so carefully for myself. I had spent months preparing for this decision. There were endless therapy sessions, late-night research, and hours spent staring at







