Morning arrived like it always did.
Too bright.
Too honest.
Sunlight poured through the glass walls of Ethan's apartment, landing directly on his face like an accusation. He groaned, rolled over, and then froze.
The word positive replayed in his head.
Right.
That.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. For a brief, foolish second, he hoped the night before had been another ridiculous dream like the talking baby in the boardroom.
It wasn't.
His phone lay on the bed beside him.
He picked it up, unlocked the screen, and stared at her contact number. No name. Just digits. He hadn't saved it. He didn't know why maybe because naming things made them real.
He opened the message app.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
> Ethan: We need to talk.
He stared at it.
Too cold.
Deleted.
Typed again.
> Ethan: The results are in.
Too blunt.
Deleted.
He exhaled sharply, annoyed with himself. Since when did words become difficult?
Finally, he typed:
> Ethan: Morning.
The hospital called.
Can we meet today?
He read it twice.
Simple. Neutral. Honest.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
The message delivered instantly.
Now came the worst part.
Waiting.
Ethan tossed the phone onto the bed and stood, pacing the room. He checked the time. Then checked it again, as if it might change faster if he watched it.
A minute passed.
Then another.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "I negotiate billion-dollar deals. I can handle a text message."
His phone buzzed.
He stopped mid-step and grabbed it so fast he nearly dropped it.
Her reply was short.
> Her: Where?
No anger.
No softness.
Just business.
Ethan swallowed.
> Ethan: There's a café near the clinic.
Noon?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Reappeared.
> Her: Fine.
That was it.
Ethan stared at the screen for a long moment, then let out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Meeting confirmed.
Reality scheduled.
They met exactly at noon.
The café was quiet, sunlight spilling through wide windows, soft music playing in the background too peaceful for the conversation waiting between them.
She was already there.
Seated near the corner table, coat on, hands wrapped around a cup she hadn't touched. She looked calm, but Ethan noticed the tension in her shoulders the moment he sat across from her.
"You got the results," she said.
"Yes," Ethan replied.
He didn't waste time. Didn't soften his voice. He had spent the entire morning convincing himself this was the responsible thing to say.
"It's positive," he continued. "The child is mine."
She nodded once. No surprise. Just confirmation.
Silence stretched.
Ethan inhaled slowly. "I'll be honest with you."
Her eyes lifted to his. "You haven't been so far."
He ignored the comment.
"I'm not ready for this," he said. "I don't know how to be responsible for a child. I don't even want to pretend I can be."
Her grip tightened on the cup.
"I can take care of everything financially," he went on. "Doctor visits. A place. Whatever you need."
She stared at him, unreadable.
"And?" she asked quietly.
Ethan hesitated.
Then said the sentence that would destroy everything.
"I think it would be best if you didn't keep the baby."
The words hung in the air.
For a second, she didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Then she stood so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"What did you just say?" she asked, voice low.
"I'm saying I can't do this," Ethan replied, standing as well. "This isn't fair to either of us—or to a child brought into chaos."
Her laugh was sharp. Broken. "Chaos?"
"Yes," he said. "A child deserves stability. Not a father who—"
The slap came fast.
A clean, sharp sound echoed through the café.
Ethan's head turned slightly with the impact.
Silence fell.
Every conversation around them stopped.
She was shaking not with weakness, but rage.
"You don't get to decide that," she said, voice trembling. "You don't get to erase a life because you're afraid."
Ethan touched his cheek slowly, more stunned than hurt.
"I'm being realistic," he snapped back. "You think love magically appears just because biology happened?"
"No," she shot back. "But responsibility does."
"You expect me to become someone I'm not overnight?" he demanded.
"I expect you to own your actions," she said fiercely. "You were grown enough to make that choice that night."
"That night was a mistake," Ethan said.
Her eyes hardened.
"No," she said. "You were careless. This baby is not a mistake."
People were staring now.
Neither of them cared.
"You think money fixes everything," she continued. "You think a cheque can clean your conscience."
"That's not fair—"
"What's not fair," she interrupted, "is you asking me to carry the weight alone while you walk away untouched."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "I told you I'd support you."
"With money," she said bitterly. "Not with presence. Not with courage."
She grabbed her bag.
"You don't want to be responsible?" she said, eyes blazing. "Fine. Don't be."
She stepped closer, close enough that only he could hear.
"But don't ever ask me to destroy myself so you can stay comfortable."
She turned and walked out.
The bell above the café door chimed softly as it closed behind her.
Ethan stood frozen, cheek still burning not from the slap, but from the truth in her words.
For the first time in his life, he had tried to run
And discovered that some things follow you no matter how fast you walk away.
Ethan walked into his office like nothing had happened.
Same tailored suit.
Same unreadable expression.
Same CEO stride.
The only difference?
A faint red mark on his cheek.
Marcus noticed it immediately.
He froze mid-sip of coffee, squinted, then slowly lowered the cup.
"Oh," he said softly. "No."
Ethan dropped his keys on the desk and shrugged out of his coat. "Good morning to you too."
Marcus took two long steps closer, studying his face like it was a rare artifact. Then his lips twitched.
"Is that… a slap?"
Ethan didn't look up. "If you're asking medically, yes."
Marcus stared for half a second.
Then he exploded.
He bent forward, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
"Oh my—" he choked. "This is the same cheek that usually gets kissed first!"
Ethan shot him a glare. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Marcus straightened, wiping his eyes. "Ethan Blackwood. Playboy. Untouchable. Finally touched."
"It was one slap," Ethan said coolly.
"One slap," Marcus repeated. "From the woman carrying your child."
He laughed again. "I should frame this moment."
Ethan dropped into his chair, completely unfazed. "She overreacted."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You asked her to abort."
Ethan leaned back, folding his arms. "I gave her an option."
"Wow," Marcus said. "Listen to you. So generous."
"I was honest," Ethan replied. "I told her I can't be responsible."
Marcus tilted his head. "And how did she respond to your honesty?"
Ethan shrugged. "With violence."
Marcus snorted. "You deserved at least two."
Ethan ignored that. "I said what I needed to say. What she does now is her choice."
Marcus studied him for a moment, amusement slowly fading. "You really don't care?"
Ethan smirked, the familiar playboy confidence sliding back into place like armor. "I care enough to be clear. I won't pretend to be something I'm not."
He tapped his desk once. "She's strong. She'll decide."
Marcus crossed his arms. "And if she keeps the baby?"
Ethan's jaw tightened—just briefly.
"Then I'll deal with it when it happens," he said lightly. "I'm not losing sleep over hypothetical futures."
Marcus leaned back against the desk. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"The cheeks that usually get kissed," Marcus said slowly, "finally learned what consequences feel like."
Ethan scoffed. "Don't get poetic."
Marcus grinned. "Too late."
Ethan turned to his computer, already pulling up emails, slipping effortlessly back into CEO mode.
Meeting at ten.
Call at eleven.
Lunch he'd probably skip.
Life moved on.
Still when Marcus turned to leave, he paused at the door.
"For the record," he said, "women don't slap men they don't matter to."
Ethan didn't look up. "Good thing I'm not sentimental."
Marcus smiled to himself and walked out.
Ethan stared at his screen, unread emails blurring slightly.
For a man who claimed he didn't care
His cheek was still burning.
And that annoyed him more than he'd ever admit.
______________
On the other side.....
She didn't go home right away.
She walked.
Past streets she didn't notice. Past people she didn't see. The city moved around her, loud and alive, while everything inside her felt painfully quiet.
By the time she reached her small apartment, her hands were trembling.
She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, finally letting the strength drain out of her body. The silence pressed in no music, no voices, no distraction.
This was her reality.
She slipped off her shoes, placed her bag on the table, and sank onto the edge of the bed. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the wall.
Then she laughed.
A short, broken sound.
"Of course," she whispered to herself.
She had known better. She always knew better.
Her parents had taught her responsibility early too early. And then they had left her with it.
Gone.
Both of them.
Not dramatically. Not peacefully. Just… suddenly. An accident. Paperwork. Funeral costs. And then the letters started arriving.
Loan reminders.
Interest notices.
Final warnings.
She had been barely old enough to grieve, yet old enough to sign documents she didn't fully understand. Their house was gone. Their savings were gone. What remained was debt heavy, suffocating debt with her name written neatly at the bottom.
She worked two jobs. Sometimes three.
Bartending at night.
Office work during the day.
Smiling when customers flirted. Saying no more often than yes.
Until last night.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the folded cheque.
Blank.
Her chest tightened as she stared at it.
Money.
The answer everyone assumed fixed everything.
"That's why you agreed," she said softly, accusing herself. "Not because of him. Because of this."
Because the bank deadline was approaching.
Because the loan collector didn't care about grief or morality.
Because survival didn't come with dignity.
She pressed a hand to her stomach instinctively.
"I didn't plan you," she whispered, voice cracking. "But I won't pretend you're a mistake."
The café scene replayed in her mind his words, his calm tone, the way he had said it like logic, not cruelty.
I can't be responsible.
Her composure shattered.
Tears came suddenly, violently, like she'd been holding them back for days weeks months.
She curled forward, clutching her coat, sobbing into the quiet room.
"I didn't ask for your responsibility," she cried. "I asked for honesty. I asked for decency."
Her shoulders shook.
She cried for her parents.
For the debt they left behind.
For the night she'd convinced herself was just temporary.
For the man who treated consequence like an inconvenience.
And for herself
for being strong for so long that people forgot she was tired.
When the tears finally slowed, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat up.
Her eyes burned.
Her chest ached.
But her resolve remained.
She folded the cheque carefully and placed it in a drawer not torn, not accepted. Just set aside.
"I'll handle this," she said aloud, voice hoarse but firm. "Like I always do."
She lay back on the bed, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.
Outside, the city continued without pause.
Inside that small apartment, a woman who had lost everything was quietly choosing to keep one thing no matter the cost.