(Flashback)
The nightclub pulsed like a living thing.
Bass rolled through the floor, lights cut through smoke, and bodies moved without thinking exactly the way Ethan Blackwood liked it. He sat in a leather booth overlooking the dance floor, jacket open, one arm draped casually along the backrest, glass of whiskey warming slowly in his hand.
This was familiar. Comfortable.
Nights were easy.
Nights didn't ask questions.
A woman laughed beside him, leaning close to say something he didn't hear or didn't care to. He smiled automatically, the kind of smile that worked without effort, then looked past her.
That's when he saw her.
Behind the bar.
She wasn't dressed to compete with the crowd. No dramatic movements, no exaggerated smiles. She poured drinks with quiet focus, tying her hair back as if the noise didn't belong to her.
Ethan's gaze stayed there longer than he intended.
"Who's the bartender?" he asked.
Marcus followed his line of sight. "New, I think. And not your usual type."
Ethan didn't answer.
Because that was the problem.
She wasn't his usual type.
A man brushed against the bar, clearly flirting. She served him efficiently, nodded once, and turned away. No smile. No encouragement.
Ethan straightened slightly.
"Call someone over," he said.
Marcus smirked. "I knew it."
A staff member approached. Ethan didn't raise his voice.
"I want to talk to her," he said. "Tonight."
The man hesitated. "She's working."
Ethan met his eyes. Calm. Certain. "She won't be in a few minutes."
The staff member nodded and moved away.
Across the room, she noticed the interruption. Her shoulders stiffened as the man spoke to her. She shook her head immediately.
"No," she said—clear even over the music.
Ethan watched, intrigued.
The man tried again. She looked irritated now, lips pressed thin.
Then he said something else.
Money.
Ethan saw the shift the brief pause, the glance in his direction. Their eyes met.
Not interest.
Evaluation.
She sighed, removed her apron, and handed it off. When she approached his booth, she stopped just short of it.
"You wanted to talk," she said.
Not a question.
"Sit," Ethan replied.
"I said one drink."
"And I ordered one."
She studied him, then sat across from him, posture straight, guarded.
"I'm not here for entertainment," she said immediately.
"Good," Ethan replied. "I'm bored of entertainment."
That surprised her.
She lifted her glass. "You don't know my name."
"Names complicate things."
"Exactly."
Silence stretched between them.
"You do this often?" she asked.
"Talk?" Ethan smirked. "Rarely."
She didn't smile back. "I meant this. Buying someone's time."
Ethan considered her. "I didn't buy anything. I asked."
"And added money."
"You could have said no."
"I did."
"And yet," he gestured between them.
She exhaled slowly. "One drink. That's it."
They talked about nothing important. About the city. About how loud silence could be. About things that didn't matter and somehow mattered anyway.
She didn't flirt.
He didn't push.
Time slipped.
When she checked her phone, she stood. "I should go."
Ethan nodded. "I'll walk you out."
Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. The city felt real again.
She stopped near the curb. "This is where we part."
"Is it?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I didn't say I'd go with you."
"I didn't say you should."
Their eyes locked.
"I don't do promises," she said.
"I don't ask for them."
Another pause.
Then she said, "I don't want to be alone tonight."
Ethan didn't touch her. Didn't rush.
"Then come," he said simply.
The ride was silent. Not awkward heavy.
At his place, she stood near the window, arms crossed.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said.
"I know."
"And tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow is tomorrow."
That was enough.
They moved closer not hurried, not careless. The kiss was slow, deliberate, filled with a restraint that made it dangerous.
Later, she lay awake while the city slept.
This wasn't who she was.
This wasn't what she did.
But it was done.
Morning would come.
And neither of them knew yet that this night the one that felt so temporary..
would follow them forever.
Morning came softly.
Too softly for what the night had been.
She woke to pale light spilling through sheer curtains, the city outside muted and distant. For a moment, she didn't move. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar silence.
No music.
No voices.
No warmth beside her.
Her fingers shifted slightly.
The other side of the bed was cold.
She turned her head slowly.
Empty.
The realization didn't hit like pain. It came as something quieter something she'd expected even before opening her eyes.
Of course.
She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, scanning the room. Everything was immaculate. Too perfect. No trace of last night except the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air.
That's when she saw it.
On the bedside table.
A folded piece of paper.
She reached for it, already knowing what it would be.
A cheque.
Blank.
No amount written. No explanation. Just his signature at the bottom clean, confident, final.
Her fingers tightened around it.
So this was how he ended things.
Not goodbye.
Not a word.
Just money.
She let out a slow breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Of course," she murmured to the empty room.
For a moment, she considered leaving it there.
Then she picked it up.
Not because she wanted it but because she refused to pretend she hadn't seen it.
She stood, gathering her clothes from the chair where she'd left them the night before. Every movement was deliberate. Calm. Controlled. If there was disappointment, she didn't allow it to show not even to herself.
In the bathroom, she washed her face, studying her reflection.
No regret stared back at her.
Just resolve.
She dressed quickly, smoothing her hair, slipping on her coat. Before leaving, she glanced once more at the bed at the place where she'd let herself believe this night might be different.
It wasn't.
She folded the cheque neatly and slid it into her bag.
Not as acceptance.
As closure.
The apartment was quiet as she walked out, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that felt heavier than it should have.
In the elevator, she stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls.
This was done.
One night.
No promises.
No expectations.
She stepped out into the morning air, the city already alive and indifferent, and walked away without looking back.
She didn't know yet that she wouldn't be walking away alone.
Or that the cheque she carried meant nothing compared to what she was leaving behind.
(Flashback ended)
-----------
Ethan was running.
Which was strange, because Ethan Blackwood did not run
unless it was from responsibility.
"Mr. Blackwood!"
He turned.
A woman in a nurse's uniform was sprinting toward him, holding something small and pink.
"Sir! You forgot this!"
She shoved it into his arms.
It was a baby.
A very loud baby.
"What—no," Ethan said, instinctively trying to hand it back. "This isn't mine."
The baby stared up at him with disturbingly familiar eyes.
Then it frowned.
And screamed.
The sound echoed through what suddenly wasn't a hallway anymore but a boardroom.
His boardroom.
Executives sat around the long table, laptops open, staring at him in silence.
The baby slammed a tiny fist on the table.
"Agenda item one," the baby said.
The room gasped.
Ethan's mouth fell open. "You can talk?"
"I'm disappointed in you," the baby continued in a deep, judgmental tone. "You missed my first kick."
"That's not even biologically possible," Ethan argued.
The baby pulled out a tiny folder and slapped it against his chest.
PATERNITY REPORT — CONFIRMED.
Ethan looked up. "Marcus!"
Marcus was sitting at the head of the table, sipping coffee, completely unbothered.
"Told you karma would find you," Marcus said. "Also, you're late for diaper duty."
The baby nodded seriously. "Very late."
The boardroom walls dissolved.
Now Ethan was in the nightclub again music pounding, lights flashing but everyone was holding babies instead of drinks.
A woman danced past him, rocking a stroller.
The bartender leaned over the counter. "You want her for tonight?" she asked, nodding at a crib.
"No," Ethan said quickly. "Absolutely not."
Too late.
The baby in his arms started crying again louder this time.
"Why are you crying?" Ethan demanded.
The baby crossed its arms. "You left a cheque."
Ethan froze.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said defensively. "It was just—"
The baby's lower lip trembled. "Was I not worth a goodbye?"
The lights went out.
A spotlight hit Ethan.
He was standing alone on a stage, still holding the baby.
A voice boomed from nowhere.
"Mr. Blackwood, are you prepared to commit?"
"No," Ethan said immediately.
The baby stopped crying.
Slowly, it smiled.
"That's what you said last time."
The baby snapped its fingers.
Everything went white.
-----------
Ethan jolted awake.
His heart pounded. His shirt clung to him. He sat up abruptly, scanning the room.
No baby.
No boardroom.
No judgmental infant with his eyes.
Just his bedroom. Quiet. Empty.
He ran a hand down his face and let out a breath. "That's… not normal."
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
Ethan stared at it.
The dream's last words echoed in his head.
That's what you said last time.
For the first time in his life, Ethan Blackwood was afraid to answer a phone call.
And that scared him more than any nightmare ever had.
Ethan stared at the phone like it might explode.
Unknown number.
Hospital numbers were always unknown numbers. That alone made his stomach twist.
He cleared his throat, tried to look calm because apparently even alone in his bedroom, pride mattered and answered.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Blackwood?" a professional female voice said.
"Yes," he replied carefully.
"This is St. Vincent Medical Center. We're calling regarding the DNA test you requested."
Ethan froze.
The room felt too quiet. Even the city outside seemed to hold its breath.
"Yes," he said again. "Go on."
"There's no need for concern," the woman continued calmly, which was absolutely the wrong thing to say. "The results are clear."
Ethan stood up so fast the bedsheet slid to the floor.
"And?" he asked. "Clear how?"
A pause. Papers shuffling.
"The paternity test is positive."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Then
"What?!" Ethan shouted.
He spun in a slow circle like the answer might be written on the walls.
"Sir?" the woman said, startled.
"You mean—wait—positive as in positive positive?" he asked rapidly. "As in mine? As in genetically, undeniably, permanently mine?"
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood," she replied, trying very hard to stay professional. "You are the biological father."
Ethan dragged a hand through his hair.
"Oh. Oh no. No, no, no—"
"Sir?"
"I mean—thank you," he said quickly. "Very professional call. Five stars. Life-changing. Excellent service."
He ended the call without waiting for a response.
The phone slipped from his hand and landed on the bed.
Ethan stared straight ahead.
Then he laughed.
Once. Loud and sharp.
Then again.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said to the empty room.
He walked a few steps, then stopped abruptly. "I'm a father."
He pointed at himself. "Me."
He imagined the baby from his dream, arms crossed, judgmental eyes.
"No," Ethan said firmly. "Absolutely not."
His phone buzzed again—this time with Marcus's name.
Ethan answered immediately.
"It's mine," he said.
Marcus paused. "Good morning to you too."
"DNA confirmed," Ethan continued. "I helped create a human."
Another pause.
Then Marcus burst out laughing.
"I knew it!" Marcus shouted. "I knew biology would humble you!"
"This is not funny," Ethan snapped.
"You're right," Marcus said between laughs. "It's hilarious."
"I don't even own a crib," Ethan said. "I don't like responsibility. I barely like plants."
Marcus was wheezing now. "Congratulations, Dad."
"Don't call me that!"
Marcus laughed harder. "Too late. It's official."
Ethan dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm going to ruin a child," he muttered.
Marcus cleared his throat. "Or," he said, suddenly softer, "you're going to surprise yourself."
Ethan didn't answer.
Because for the first time since the call
He wasn't running.
And that realization scared him more than the word positive ever could.