Chapter 1: The Two Pink Lines

The day Sophia finally came home, I stared at two pink lines on a test and knew everything was about to fall apart.

My stomach dropped. Was this really happening? A baby? Now? With him?

I panicked, shoving the test back into its box, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. The bathroom’s cold tile pressed against my bare feet, grounding me in this moment I desperately wished I could undo.

A knock sounded at the door. "Babe, you okay in there? You’ve been in there forever."

"I’ll be right out," I called, my voice an octave too high. I tried to steady myself, splashing cold water on my face before finally opening the door.

Lucas Chase waited on the other side, his sharp, chiseled features just as breathtaking up close as they were splashed across every society magazine in Manhattan. His eyes, unfocused but impossibly intense, missed nothing.

"You alright?" He reached out, his hand searching for mine. I didn’t hesitate—I slipped my fingers into his. His palm was warm, calloused, and somehow familiar.

"Yeah," I lied, "Just zoned out in the bath too long."

He smiled, slow and gentle. His winter-cold face softened, suddenly boyish. Every gentle word from him felt like another lie I’d have to carry.

After I got dressed, Lucas insisted on rubbing lotion into my skin—one of those French brands that cost more than my old rent. It was supposed to be Sophia’s favorite, but now it was part of the act I couldn’t seem to stop playing.

His touch lingered, and soon his lips found mine, pressing me back against the headboard. The old headboard groaned—a reminder this penthouse was more showpiece than home.

In the middle of it, the secret inside me pulsed. That tiny, impossible life. I couldn’t keep going, not tonight.

"Lucas, I’m tired. Let’s just sleep, okay?"

"Really?" His fingers danced over my skin, teasing. "You sure about that? What’s this, then?"

Heat rushed to my face. I pulled the blanket up, cocooning myself in Egyptian cotton. Lucas’s laughter was low, vibrating through his chest against my back.

"Alright, you sleep."

His hand moved gently through my hair, slow and patient, until I closed my eyes and pretended to drift off. But I was wide awake, guilt pressing on my chest like a seatbelt that wouldn’t let up.

He could play piano before the accident—long, elegant fingers, pale and strong. He held me close, murmuring sweet nothings that were meant for someone else.

"Why aren’t you sleeping, babe?" he whispered into the dark. Like he didn’t already know.