The club had pulsed like a living thing that night—bass-heavy music, gold-tipped champagne flutes, and too many whispered promises behind velvet ropes. She had been the center of it all: glittering, untouchable, a high-end party girl with too many secrets and not enough regrets.

That’s where she met him.

Micah Domitus wasn’t supposed to be there. Archangel of Order. The Asteri’s attack dog. Too cold for pleasure, too powerful for mortals. And yet, there he was—watching her from the shadows like a curse wrapped in celestial silk.

Their one night together had been a blur of sin and heat, raw and starless. No names. No lies. No promises. Just his voice, rough with restraint, warning her before he left at dawn:

“Don’t contact me again. Ever.”

And she hadn’t.

Until now.

Now, she’s pregnant.

The test glowed like a damn rune in the trash can. She hadn’t told a soul. Not her followers, not her manager, not even her therapist (who thinks she’s on her third vacation in Lythos this month).

And maybe she wouldn’t have reached out at all… But something shifted. A shadow near her penthouse. A Vanir with wings watching her from a distance. A voice in her dreams that whispered, You should have listened.

So here she is. In his office. One hand on her still-flat stomach. The other pushing open the door she swore she’d never walk through again.

Let’s see what the Archangel of Order does with a little chaos.