I buy three different tests.
Because one might be wrong, right? One could be a false positive. A fluke. A manufacturing defect that just happens to coincide with the worst timing in human history.
But three tests from three different brands?
That's harder to deny.
I'm standing in my bathroom at seven in the morning, staring at three plastic sticks lined up on the edge of the sink like a jury delivering a verdict.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
Two pink lines. A plus sign. The word "PREGNANT" in digital letters that seem to be mocking me.
I should've known the moment I felt different. The way my body has been off for the past week—exhausted in a way that sleep doesn't fix, nauseous at smells that never bothered me before, emotional in ways that don't make sense.
I cried yesterday because I ran out of my favorite coffee creamer.
Actually cried. Over hazelnut creamer.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Rhea, asking if I want to grab breakfast before the gallery opens.
I can't face her right now. Can't pretend everything's normal when my entire world just tilted sideways.
I text back: Not feeling great. Rain check?
Her response is immediate: Want me to bring soup? Medicine? A mariachi band to cheer you up?
Despite everything, I smile. I'm fine. Just need rest.
Okay but I'm checking on you later. And if you're not fine, I'm breaking down your door with snacks and bad movies.
Deal.
I set the phone down and look at those three tests again.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant with Caspian Thorne's baby.
A man I spent one night with. A man who told me I'd never see him again. A man who's probably forgotten I exist by now, moved on to whatever billionaires do when they're not accidentally sleeping with women who wander into the wrong hotel rooms.
The panic rises fast and sharp, stealing my breath.
What am I going to do?
I'm twenty-six years old. I live in a studio apartment barely big enough for me, let alone a baby. I work at a gallery that pays just enough to cover rent and groceries if I'm careful. My art career is still a dream I'm chasing with illustration gigs that pay in exposure more often than actual money.
I am not ready for this.
Not financially. Not emotionally. Not in any way that matters.
But even as the panic threatens to swallow me whole, there's something else there too. Something I don't want to acknowledge but can't ignore.
A spark.
Tiny and fragile and absolutely terrifying in its implications.
Because this baby—this impossible, unexpected, completely unplanned baby—is also a piece of that night. A piece of the most intense, overwhelming, life-changing experience I've ever had.
A piece of him.
I sit on the edge of my bathtub, hugging my knees, trying to process feelings I don't have names for.
I don't even know if I'm keeping it yet. That's a decision that's mine to make, and I know—logically, rationally—that I have options. That I need to think this through carefully and not let emotion cloud my judgment.
But my hand drifts to my still-flat stomach, and the spark gets a little brighter.
I call in sick to work.
Spend the day in bed, laptop open, googling things I probably shouldn't google. Pregnancy symptoms. First trimester. What to expect when you're expecting and completely unprepared.
I make lists. Pros and cons. Practical considerations. Financial realities.
The cons list is longer. Significantly longer.
But when I look at the pros list—just three items, really—my chest gets tight.
I've always wanted to be a mother someday2. This baby didn't ask to be created in chaos3. I'm not alone (even if it feels like I am)
That last one is a lie, of course. I am alone. Spectacularly, completely alone in this.
Todd would be worse than useless. The man who tried to trade me for debt forgiveness doesn't get a say in what happens to my body or my future.
My mother? We haven't spoken in two years. She made it clear a long time ago that I was an inconvenience she tolerated rather than a daughter she loved.
Rhea would be supportive—God, she'd be amazing—but this isn't her burden to carry.
Which leaves... him.
Caspian.
The father. The man who spent one night making sure I was safe and fed and protected, who looked at me like I mattered, who said I deserved better than his world but kept security on my building anyway.
Does he deserve to know?
I don't even have his number. Don't know how to reach him except—
The hotel.
The thought hits me like lightning. He was staying there that night. Probably owns a stake in it, based on the way he talked to the staff. If anyone knows how to contact him, it would be them.
But what would I even say?
Hi, remember me? The girl who accidentally ended up in your bed three weeks ago? Well, funny story...
No. I need to think about this more carefully. Need to decide what I'm doing before I drag anyone else into this mess.
But even as I tell myself that, I know I'm lying.
Because I have to tell him. Not because he has a right to dictate my choices—he doesn't. This is my body, my life, my decision.
But he has a right to know.
And honestly? Part of me wants to see him again. Wants to look into those storm-gray eyes and see if that night was as real as it felt, or if I imagined the intensity of it in the chaos and confusion.
Part of me needs to know if he thinks about me at all.
It takes me two days to work up the courage.
Two days of internal debate and midnight panic attacks and staring at my phone like it might magically produce his contact information.
On the third day, I put on my most confident outfit—jeans and a sweater that makes me look more pulled-together than I feel—and take the bus downtown.
The Meridian Hotel looks exactly the same. All marble and money and the kind of elegance that makes me feel like I'm trespassing just by walking through the doors.
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't just break through my chest and run away without me.
The lobby is busy. Business travelers checking in. Tourists taking photos. Normal people doing normal things while I'm about to ask the impossible.
Excuse me, can you tell me how to reach the billionaire who's probably forgotten I exist so I can inform him that our one-night mistake resulted in a pregnancy?
Yeah. That'll go over well.
I approach the front desk where a woman in a perfectly pressed suit is typing on a computer. Her name tag says "Jennifer."
"Hi." My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "I need to... I'm looking for someone who stayed here. Or owns a suite here. Caspian Thorne?"
Jennifer's fingers freeze over the keyboard.
She looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. Professional courtesy hardening into something more guarded.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't give out information about our guests."
"I'm not asking for information. I just need to contact him. It's important. It's—" I take a breath, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. "Please. Just a phone number or an email address. Something."
"I'm afraid I can't help you." But she's reaching for the phone now, and there's something in her eyes that makes my stomach drop.
She thinks I'm some kind of stalker. Or groupie. Someone trying to get close to a powerful man for all the wrong reasons.
"You don't understand. I know him. We—we met. Three weeks ago. He told me—" I stop, realizing how this sounds.
Jennifer's expression doesn't change. "One moment please."
She speaks quietly into the phone, and I catch fragments. "Front desk... yes... asking about Mr. Thorne... young woman, mid-twenties..."
My face burns with humiliation. This was a mistake. I should leave. Should turn around and walk out and figure this out on my own.
But I don't move.
Because I came here for a reason. Because this baby deserves a father who knows it exists. Because Caspian Thorne looked at me like I mattered, and I need to know if that was real or just another illusion in a night full of them.
Jennifer hangs up the phone. "The manager will be right with you."
"I don't need the manager. I just need—"
"Ma'am, please wait here."
There's no arguing with that tone. So I wait, standing awkwardly by the desk while other guests check in around me and Jennifer pretends I don't exist.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
I'm about to give up and leave when a man in an expensive suit approaches. Fifties, graying at the temples, the kind of face that's seen everything and isn't impressed by much.
"Ms...?" He lets it hang there, waiting for my name.
"Bennett. Sloane Bennett."
Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? Impossible. Unless—
Unless Caspian told people to watch for me.
"I'm Richard Lawson, the general manager." He gestures toward a door marked "Private." "Perhaps we could speak in my office?"
"I just need to contact Caspian Thorne. That's all. If you could just give me a number or—"
His face goes pale.
Actually pale, like I've just said something that terrifies him.
"Mr. Thorne." He clears his throat. "Ma'am, you can't just... I'll need to make a call."
"A call to who?"
But he's already moving toward his office, pulling out his phone, and I know—I know with absolute certainty—that in the next few minutes, my carefully controlled approach to this situation is about to spiral completely out of my hands.
Because Richard Lawson isn't calling security.
He's calling Caspian.
And after three weeks of silence, of telling myself I'd never see him again, of trying to move on with my life—
I'm about to come face to face with the man who said I deserved better than his world.
The man whose baby I'm carrying.
The man who's about to find out that our one impossible night had consequences neither of us planned for.