CHAPTER 12: His Home

The car Alexander sent was obscenely luxurious—a black Mercedes with leather seats that probably cost more than my college tuition. The driver was professional and silent, which I appreciated. I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

My phone buzzed as we pulled away from Sarah's building.

SARAH: Text me when you get there so I know you weren't kidnapped by a sexy billionaire.

ME: That's literally where I'm going.

SARAH: You know what I mean. Be safe. Use protection. Oh wait...

ME: NOT FUNNY.

SARAH: Little bit funny.

I pocketed my phone, trying to calm my racing heart. This was just a conversation. A necessary conversation about how two adults were going to co-parent a child they'd accidentally created.

Nothing to be nervous about.

Except I was terrified.

The car pulled up to a building in Tribeca—all glass and steel and modern elegance. The kind of building that screamed "old money trying to look new money."

"Mr. Sterling's penthouse is the top floor," the driver said, the first words he'd spoken the entire trip. "The doorman is expecting you."

"Thank you."

The lobby was all marble and minimalist art. The doorman—an older man with kind eyes—smiled when I approached.

"Ms. Martinez? Mr. Sterling is expecting you. Penthouse elevator is on the right. You'll need this." He handed me a key card. "It's programmed for today only."

Of course Alexander had a private elevator. Of course he did.

The ride up was smooth and silent. My reflection in the mirrored walls showed a woman who looked far more composed than she felt. Black jeans, cream sweater, minimal makeup. Casual but put-together. Like someone who definitely hadn't spent an hour agonizing over what to wear to her baby daddy's house.

The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

And it was stunning.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. An open floor plan with a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Modern furniture in shades of grey and cream. Art on the walls that was probably worth more than most people's houses.

Alexander was standing by those massive windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city. He turned when he heard the elevator.

"Bella. Thank you for coming."

He was in jeans and a grey henley—casual clothes that made him look younger, more like Alex from the hotel and less like CEO Alexander Sterling. His feet were bare. Something about that detail—those bare feet on the hardwood floor—felt incredibly intimate.

"Nice place," I said, stepping into the space. The elevator doors closed behind me with a soft whoosh.

"Thank you. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? I have ginger ale if you're feeling nauseous."

The thoughtfulness of it—that he'd bought ginger ale specifically for me—made my chest tight.

"Water is fine."

He moved to the kitchen, and I took the opportunity to look around more carefully. Everything was beautiful and expensive and completely impersonal. No photos. No knick-knacks. Nothing that suggested anyone actually lived here.

"You don't spend much time here, do you?" I asked when he returned with two glasses of water.

"How can you tell?"

"It's too clean. Too perfect. It looks like a showroom."

He smiled slightly. "You're right. I'm usually at the office or the hotel. This is just where I sleep. Sometimes."

"Where did you live? Before. With your wife."

His expression shuttered. "Connecticut. A house. We sold it after—after she passed. Too many memories."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was the right decision." He gestured to the couch. "Should we sit?"

We settled on opposite ends of the massive sectional. Close enough to talk. Far enough to maintain that careful distance we'd been preserving.

"So," he said. "Logistics."

"Logistics."

"First question: where are you living right now?"

"Sarah's couch."

His jaw tightened. "That's not sustainable. Especially not with—" He gestured vaguely at my stomach.

"I know. I'm apartment hunting. But everything in the city is expensive and I haven't gotten my first paycheck yet and—" I stopped. This was humiliating. "I'm figuring it out."

"Move in here."

The words dropped between us like a bomb.

"What?"

"Move in here. With me." He leaned forward, his grey eyes intense. "You're pregnant with my child. You shouldn't be sleeping on a couch or worrying about rent or any of that."

"Alexander, I can't just move in with you."

"Why not?"

"Because—because we barely know each other! Because it would look incredibly suspicious at work! Because—" I struggled for words. "Because it's insane."

"Is it?" He stood, pacing to the windows and back. "Bella, think about it practically. You need a place to live. I have more space than I know what to do with. You're pregnant and shouldn't be stressed about housing. This solves the problem."

"It creates a dozen new problems."

"Name them."

"Okay." I counted on my fingers. "One: everyone at work will know something is going on. Two: James will definitely figure something out. Three: we have—" I hesitated. "History. Living together would complicate that."

"The history is exactly why this makes sense." He sat back down, closer this time. "Bella, I'm not suggesting we—I'm not asking you to share my bed. You'd have your own room. Your own space. Complete privacy. I travel for work constantly. You'd barely see me."

"Then what's the point?"

"The point is that you'd be safe. Comfortable. Not stressed." His hand moved like he wanted to reach for mine, then stopped. "And I'd be close. If you needed anything. If something went wrong."

The care in his voice undid something in me.

"I can't afford to pay rent here," I said quietly. "Whatever astronomical amount this place costs."

"I'm not asking you to pay rent."

"Then I'd be—what? Your kept woman?"

"You'd be the mother of my child, living in my home while pregnant." His voice was firm. "There's a difference."

"People won't see it that way."

"I don't care what people think."

"You keep saying that!" I stood, needing to move. "But you don't get it. You're Alexander Sterling. Billionaire. CEO. You have power and money and respect. No one questions you. But me? I'm the twenty-four-year-old who dated your son and is now pregnant with your baby. People will have opinions. They'll call me a gold digger. A home wrecker. They'll say I planned this."

"Let them say it."

"Easy for you to say. It's not your reputation on the line."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm not—I'm handling this badly."

The admission surprised me. "What?"

"I'm trying to fix things. That's what I do. Problems appear and I solve them. But you're not a problem to be solved." He met my eyes. "You're a person. With valid concerns. And I'm being an arrogant ass by steamrolling over them."

The self-awareness was unexpected. And attractive. Damn it.

"You're not being an ass," I said, sitting back down. "You're being practical. And maybe you're right. Maybe living here makes sense. But—"

"But?"

"Can we make it a contract? Legal terms. So I don't feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

His lips twitched. "You think you're taking advantage of me?"

"You know what I mean."

"Okay." He pulled out his phone. "I'll have my lawyer draft something. Residence agreement. You live here rent-free for the duration of your pregnancy and the first six months after the baby is born. At which point we reassess. Sound fair?"

"That's over a year."

"And?"

"And you're offering to let a near-stranger live in your home for over a year."

"You're not a stranger. You're carrying my child." His hand moved toward my stomach, stopped halfway. "May I?"

The question hung in the air.

"It's too early," I said. "You won't feel anything."

"I know. But I'd like to—if you're comfortable."

I nodded.

He moved closer, his hand settling gently on my still-flat stomach. His palm was warm through my sweater. Large enough to span most of my abdomen.

We sat like that for a moment. Silent. Connected by his hand and the tiny life growing beneath it.

"There's a heartbeat already," I said quietly. "Dr. Roberts showed me on the ultrasound."

"I know. You told me." His thumb moved in a small circle. Unconscious. Tender. "It's incredible."

"It's terrifying."

"That too."

He pulled his hand back, leaving a cold spot where warmth had been.

"So," he said. "The residence agreement. Are you comfortable with that?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it. Sarah's couch. Tiny apartments I couldn't afford. The stress of housing insecurity while pregnant.

Versus this. A beautiful home. Safety. Proximity to the baby's father.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "But with conditions."

"Name them."

"One: I pay for my own food and personal expenses. I'm not a dependent."

"Agreed."

"Two: we keep this quiet at work. As quiet as possible. I don't want special treatment."

"I can't promise complete secrecy. But I'll be discreet."

"Three: if either of us is uncomfortable with the arrangement, we revisit it. No hard feelings."

"Agreed." He extended his hand. "Deal?"

I shook it. His hand engulfed mine. Warm. Strong. Familiar in a way that made my heart race.

"Deal."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the decision settling over us.

"When do you want to move in?" he asked.

"I don't know. A few days? I need to pack. Tell Sarah. Figure out—"

"This weekend," he said decisively. "I'll send movers. You focus on packing what you want to keep. They'll handle the rest."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." His eyes held mine. "Bella, I know this is all happening fast. Too fast. But we're having a baby together. We're going to be in each other's lives for at least the next eighteen years. Might as well start figuring out how to coexist."

He was right. Of course he was right.

"Okay. This weekend."

My phone buzzed. Sarah, probably wondering if I'd been kidnapped yet.

"I should go," I said, standing. "Let you get back to your evening."

"Stay." The word came out quickly. Almost desperately. "For dinner. I was going to order from this Italian place. They have excellent pasta. And tiramisu. Do you like tiramisu?"

The randomness of the question made me smile. "I love tiramisu."

"Then stay. Please. We can—talk. Get to know each other. Since we're going to be roommates."

Roommates. Right. That's what we were going to be.

Not the man I'd slept with. Not my boss. Not the father of my baby.

Roommates.

"Okay," I said. "I'll stay for dinner."

His smile was genuine. Relieved. "Good. That's—good."

He ordered food while I texted Sarah that I was staying for dinner and not to send a search party. Then he gave me a tour of the apartment properly.

Four bedrooms. Five bathrooms. An office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A gym. A media room. A terrace with an actual garden.

"This one could be yours," he said, opening the door to a bedroom at the end of the hall. "It has an en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet. Good natural light. Quiet."

The room was beautiful. Larger than my entire bedroom at Sarah's place. A king bed. A sitting area by the windows. Everything cream and grey and luxurious.

"It's perfect," I said honestly.

"Good." He opened another door across the hall. "And this one could be the nursery. It's right across from your room. Close but not too close. We can paint it whatever color you want. Buy whatever furniture. Whatever you need."

He was painting a picture. A future. The two of us living here, raising a baby, being something that looked almost like a family.

The thought was dangerous.

"Let's take it one step at a time," I said carefully.

"Right. Of course. One step at a time."

The food arrived—enough pasta to feed six people and two massive slices of tiramisu. We ate at his dining table that sat twelve.

"Do you ever have dinner parties?" I asked, gesturing at the excessive seating.

"Never. Sophia used to. She loved entertaining. But I haven't—since she died, I haven't had people over."

"Until now."

"Until now." He looked at me. "You're the first person besides my housekeeper who's been here in two years."

The admission felt significant. Important.

"I'm honored," I said softly.

We talked over dinner—getting to know each other conversations. Favorite movies. Books. Music. All the things we hadn't talked about that night at the hotel when we'd been too busy ignoring reality.

I learned he played piano. That he'd wanted to be an architect before business took over. That he could cook but usually didn't because it felt pointless for just himself.

He learned I was terrible at math but loved words. That I'd worked three jobs through college. That my parents had died in a car accident five years ago and I still missed them every day.

"They would have loved this," I said without thinking.

"This?"

"A grandchild. They always wanted grandchildren. Marcus and I—we always said we'd give them a dozen."

"You still can. This is just the first."

The thought of having more children—with Alexander or anyone else—felt impossible to imagine right now.

"One thing at a time," I said again.

"One thing at a time," he agreed.

By the time I left, it was after ten. Alexander insisted on having his driver take me home.

"Thank you for tonight," I said at the elevator. "For dinner. For the offer. For—everything."

"Thank you for saying yes." He paused. "Bella, I know this isn't conventional. But I think we can make it work."

"I hope so."

The elevator doors started to close. He caught them.

"One more thing. What do you want? From me. From this situation. Not what you think I want to hear. What do you actually want?"

The question caught me off guard.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just—I want my baby to be happy. To feel loved. To have a good life."

"And what about you? What do you want for yourself?"

No one had asked me that. Not Sarah. Not Marcus. Not even myself.

"I want—" I stopped. "I want to not feel like I'm drowning all the time."

His expression softened. "Then that's what we'll do. We'll make sure you don't drown. Together."

The elevator doors closed.

On the ride down, I touched my stomach where his hand had been earlier.

"Well, baby," I whispered. "I guess we're moving in with your daddy. This should be interesting."

Interesting was one word for it.

Completely insane was another.

But maybe—just maybe—it was also exactly what we needed.