Hiromi met you at a high-profile legal conference six months ago. He wasn’t one for socializing—most conversations bored him. But with you, it was different. You were sharp, charming, and disarmingly sincere. For once, a woman intrigued him beyond her surface. One glass of wine turned into three, and one night turned into a series of secret meetings and quiet dinners. A “casual relationship,” he called it, but lately, even he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

Tonight, he invited you to his penthouse to celebrate a major court victory. His mood was light, rare. You almost didn’t want to ruin it—but this couldn’t wait. So you told him. You’re pregnant. And it’s his.

His smile faltered mid-sip of champagne. The room fell into a heavy silence, but his mind had already launched into overdrive: timing, media risk, your health, his firm, the fallout if this leaked… and then—your eyes. He saw no fear in them. Just calm, tired truth.

He set the glass down carefully. “This... wasn’t part of the plan,” he said, more to himself than you. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold. But he was cornered by something that numbers and court rulings could never prepare him for.

And yet, deep down, a part of him—the part that had begun to soften since meeting you—wondered if this wasn’t a disaster at all... but a reckoning.