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Adrianna JamesIn the dimly lit room, the only sounds were our labored breaths, mingling in the charged air. Each movement was a battle, every touch a clash of wills. With one final motion, he pulled away, rolling onto his side with a satisfied grunt.“Adrianna,” he said, his voice low but sharp. I turned, expecting a compliment, a soft word to ease the vulnerability of the moment. Instead, his words landed like a slap.“I’m getting bored. Let’s end this.”The air froze between us, his words slicing through the fading afterglow. A strange mix of relief and anger swirled in my chest. Relief, because at least he didn’t sugarcoat what this was—a fleeting distraction. Anger, because he didn’t even have the decency to let the moment linger.I rose, gathering my clothes with measured grace, his gaze trailing me like a challenge. If he wanted an outburst, he wouldn’t get it from me. Maybe the next woman he does this to will take the honor.“It’s fine,” I said, my tone steady. “This was hardl

It was too early for this. Too early for Damien Carter, too early for professionalism, and definitely too early for Jenna’s level of enthusiasm. I had barely set my bag down at my desk when I felt the all-too-familiar buzz of my phone. It was a text from Jenna, and I knew, with the kind of dread only a co-worker who could create a scene anywhere could inspire, that I was about to be dragged into something. Jenna (11:34 AM): “Emergency. Coffee machine down. I’m dying. Pls, fake an emergency. STAT. 🙏🏽” I stared at the message. I could already hear the drama in her voice. She’d never been one to keep her near-death coffee experiences quiet. With a resigned sigh, I typed out my response: Me (11:34 AM): “You’re a grown woman, Jenna. Deal with it.” Jenna (11:35 AM): “I’m in a life-or-death situation here. I need the emotional support of my work wife.” I groaned, but just as I was about to reply with something sarcastic, I heard it: a loud, overly dramatic thud followed by a string

I used to love Tuesdays. Not the morning part, obviously. But the evening? That was my favorite—dinner with my mom, a good meal, and an hour-long update on my life. The only downside? Her relentless attempts to set me up on blind dates. (A tradition I could really do without.)That was before Eric Thompson happened.Now that the Eric Thompson era is officially over, I have two equally horrible options:1. Brace myself for a fresh round of blind dates.2. Tell my mother I’m pregnant.Both are terrible. So, naturally, I choose to do neither—at least until Eric knows he has a fetus out there with his name on it. Call it closure, or call it my inability to move on from a fling. Either way, I’m stalling.And yet, here I am, on a Tuesday evening—the one part of the week I actually enjoy—except someone is ruining it.Sitting beside me in a not-so-fancy restaurant, waiting for my mother, is none other than Mr. I Like to Meddle himself—Damien Carter.How Did This Happen? Let’s RewindI was at

Looking back, I should have known Eric Thompson would wreck me.Even meeting him started with a disaster waiting to happen. And I remember exactly how it began.A Few Months AgoMr. Callahan is the kind of editor every reporter dreams of having. He’s like that funny bachelor uncle who makes family gatherings bearable. But he’s only human, and sometimes, even he caves under pressure from his superiors.That day, he stormed into the office, eyes blazing, and dropped his tablet onto my desk without a word."See?" He stabbed a finger at the headline flashing across the screen.ERIC THOMPSON: HEIR TO A LEGACY OR JUST ANOTHER PLAYBOY?It was familiar—because the sole subject of the article I was working on at that very moment was also Eric Thompson."I see it," I said slowly, wondering if he was testing my eyesight or trying to make a point."And you don’t even know what you did wrong," he said, voice tight with frustration.I frowned. "I can’t seem to figure it out."His eyes narrowed. "Ho

"What did the doctor say?" "Is she going to be alright?" "They're still running some tests." The voices swirled around me, muffled and distant. I couldn’t tell who was speaking or where I was. My eyelids felt like they were weighed down with lead, and trying to open them was like pushing against a wall. I wanted to move, but my limbs wouldn’t respond. Panic crept in—was this what being paralyzed felt like? My fingers tingled faintly, giving me a flicker of hope. "I'm going to give her a shot," someone said, their voice clinical and detached. My heart pounded. I hated injections—wanted to scream and push them away—but my mouth wouldn’t open, and I felt trapped in my own body. The world around me started to blur even more, voices turning into whispers that faded into silence. Darkness swallowed me whole. When I woke up again, I wasn’t lying down. I was somewhere else—a room that felt both strange and familiar. A warmth lingered in the air, the kind that reminded me of old memories I