The Baby Clause

I wasn’t supposed to come back.I mean, obviously.Who walks back into the mansion where they just insulted a billionaire, cracked a five-thousand-dollar cake like it was a stress ball, and basically declared war on wealth in a fit of righteous sugar-fueled rage?Apparently… me.Because life’s a circus and I’m the clown with a dead motorbike and a soaking-wet bra.It started with a sputter.My bike choked halfway down the winding hill like it had swallowed a bee, then coughed one final time before giving up entirely. The kind of dramatic stall that said, No more, girl. You’re on your own.And then came the storm.Not rain. Not a gentle mist. No, this was judgment day with lightning.Wind whipped across my face, slicing through my thin shirt like knives. The sky cracked open with a roar and dumped an ocean straight on my head. Within seconds, I was drenched from scalp to sock seam. Mascara stinging my eyes. Water squishing in my shoes. Dignity? Gone with the wind.Of course the engine

The day started like most disasters do. Quietly. Unassuming. Normal enough to trick you into thinking you were safe.The sun was out, soft and gold through the bakery windows, casting warm light across the flour-dusted counter. The muffins didn’t burn, which in itself felt like a cosmic gift. And I even managed to whip up a silky almond glaze without spilling half of it down my shirt.I almost smiled.Progress.My playlist was humming through the speakers. Rosa was singing off-key in the back. The shop smelled like sugar and ambition. And for a moment, a fragile, glimmering moment I let myself believe I was holding it together.Sure, I still felt off. A little lightheaded. A little woozy in a way that no amount of caffeine seemed to fix. But I blamed it on the usual suspects: stress, sleep deprivation, the ever-looming cloud of financial doom that hovered over my head like a hungry vulture.Rent was due in two days.There was thirty bucks in my checking account.And a rat, I still had

Damian's POVThe conference table felt like a coffin.Sterile. Suffocating. Drenched in the perfume of overpaid handlers and overpriced lies.Twelve seats. Ten brand consultants. Two social media strategists. One PR rep with a voice so chirpy it made my teeth itch. All of them pretending this wasn’t a corporate strategy meeting to stage a fairy tale engagement. All of them pretending it mattered.And at the head of the table?Sabrina.Glowing in a silk blouse the color of blood and ambition. Chin tilted like she belonged in the center of every lens. A diamond the size of a small country weighing down her left hand like it was a badge of victory.Her voice rolled through the room, sweet, sharp, deliberate, as she detailed the itinerary for our upcoming engagement gala. A half-million-dollar circus designed to convince the world we were in love, aligned, and altruistic. That I was still the ruthless visionary SterlingTech needed, just with a smile softened by diamond cufflinks and a soc

Morning smelled like burnt sugar and disappointment.I was elbow-deep in a half-wrecked order and already halfway through losing my voice, standing outside The Sweet Theory with my apron crusted in flour and my patience hanging by a thread.“You said before seven,” I snapped, pointing at the dented back of a van that smelled suspiciously like onions. “That was the agreement. Not seven fifteen. Not whenever-you-felt-like-crawling-out-of-bed o’clock. Seven. Sharp.”The delivery guy, a teenager with too many piercings and not enough caffeine, scratched the back of his neck. “Traffic was hell, okay? And Derek had to switch vans with me because the regular one got towed. I’m doing my best.”“Your best is currently giving me wilted strawberries and the wrong kind of chocolate. Again.”He held up his hands like I’d just threatened his bloodline. “Look, I just deliver the stuff. Talk to dispatch if it’s a problem.”I bit my tongue so hard I tasted iron. Not his fault. Not really. But I had cus

Damian's POVThe knock came at precisely 11:14 PM.Three sharp taps, nothing rushed, nothing frantic. Just firm enough to carry weight. The kind of knock that didn’t ask permission. The kind that delivered truths you weren’t ready to hear.I didn’t turn from the window.Didn’t need to.The door opened anyway.Cassian stepped in, still in his overcoat, a manila folder gripped in one hand like it might explode. “I ran the search,” he said, without the usual buffer of context or disclaimers.“Say it,” I murmured.“She had a private medical appointment. Flagged during the insurance trace,” he said, placing the folder gently on the table behind me.Still, I didn’t turn. I watched the lights of town blink like warning signals in the dark.“Where?”“Midtown OB/GYN. Discreet. Cheap. Appointment was two and a half weeks ago.”Two and a half weeks ago.That was six weeks after she vanished from my bed. No number. No name.It was also just long enough to mean something.To hint at something I di