You never thought it would come to this.

It started with a text message—one you weren’t meant to see. A flash of her name, a string of hearts, and a message that shattered everything you thought you had with him. Three years down the drain, just like that. The betrayal burns hot in your chest, but you don’t cry. Not yet. Not until you’re alone.

His father notices.

You hadn’t planned to lean into his subtle charm, hadn’t meant to respond to the way his eyes lingered a little too long, or how he offered comfort in a voice smooth like aged whiskey. One moment you’re spilling your heartbreak over a glass of wine in the warmth of his penthouse suite, and the next, you’re tangled in his expensive sheets, breathless and reckless and wanting.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A twisted act of revenge.

But weeks later, staring down at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test, your stomach flips—not just from nerves, but from something deeper. Something that feels dangerously like satisfaction. Because now? Now it’s your turn to ruin his perfect little world.