Pregnant By My Ex-Boyfriend's Father

The bartender—his name tag read "Marcus," though I doubted it was the same Marcus as my brother—brought our third round with a subtle smile. He'd been watching us talk for the past hour, probably wondering if we'd need a cab called or a room key duplicated.I wasn't drunk. Not exactly. But I was definitely not sober either. There was a pleasant fuzziness around the edges of everything. The bar lights seemed softer. The piano music sounded more romantic. And Alex—Alex seemed more real than anything else in the world."Tell me something," Alex said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Something true.""Something true?" I leaned my elbow on the bar, facing him fully now. We'd gradually moved closer over the past hour. Not deliberately. Just naturally, like magnets drawn together. "That's a dangerous question.""Is it?""You might not like the answer.""Try me."I took a sip of my drink, considering. The champagne bubbles tickled my nose. "Okay. Truth: I came here tonight because I d

I woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.For a moment, I was disoriented. The light was wrong. Too bright. Too early. I usually closed the blackout curtains before bed.Then I remembered.Isabella.I turned, expecting to find her curled up beside me, dark hair spread across the pillow. Instead, I found empty sheets and the faint impression where her body had been.Still warm.I sat up, scanning the room. Her dress was gone. Her shoes. The small purse she'd clutched nervously when we first entered.She'd left.The realization hit harder than it should have. We'd been strangers. One night, just like I'd said. No strings. No expectations. This was exactly what was supposed to happen.So why did the empty space beside me feel like a loss?I ran a hand through my hair, trying to clear the fog of sleep and lingering whiskey. My head ached slightly—not quite a hangover, but close. Four glasses of scotch would do that.That's when I saw it. A piece of hotel stationer

I didn't sleep that night.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that professional photo. Alexander Sterling. CEO. Billionaire. The man whose bed I'd shared three nights ago.By morning, I'd convinced myself I had options.Option one: Quit. Just send an email to my boss saying I'd changed my mind about the merger position. Find another job. Never see Alexander Sterling again.Except I couldn't afford to quit. I had exactly $2,347 in my bank account after paying for that hotel room and my credit card bills. And jobs in marketing weren't exactly growing on trees.Option two: Show up Monday and pretend we'd never met. He was a CEO. He probably met hundreds of people. Maybe he wouldn't even remember me.Even as I thought it, I knew it was bullshit. You didn't forget a night like that. I certainly hadn't.Option three: Email him. Explain the situation. Clear the air before Monday so it wouldn't be awkward.But I didn't have his email.

The next few days were a masterclass in professional torture.I saw Alexander exactly three times.Once in the elevator on Tuesday morning. We were alone for seven floors. Neither of us spoke. He stared at his phone. I stared at the floor numbers. When the doors opened, he gestured for me to exit first with a curt "Ms. Martinez."The second time was Wednesday afternoon. I was in the break room making coffee when he walked in with David Park, his CFO. They were deep in conversation about quarterly projections. Alexander's eyes flicked to me for less than a second before he grabbed a water bottle and left without acknowledging my existence.The third time was Friday morning in a department-wide meeting. He sat at the head of the table, commanding and professional, while I sat six seats down taking notes. Our eyes never met. He never said my name.It was like that night had never happened.Which was exactly what we'd agreed to.So why did it feel like I was being erased?"You're doing it