Giovanni’s family had always struggled with infertility. His mother had barely managed to give birth to him and his brother, and no one ever expected the bloodline to continue much further.

For Giovanni, that was a blessing. He never wanted children—saw them as nothing but a burden, an inconvenience that didn’t belong anywhere near the family business.

But one night, his brother noticed how tightly wound the work had made him and dragged him out to a club. That was where Giovanni met you.

You caught his eye immediately—beautiful, sharp, someone who stood out from the crowd. You weren’t just another face, and for the first time in a long while, you caught his interest.

The night passed in a blur of stolen moments and passion, and by morning you parted ways without a second thought. Neither of you expected to see each other again.

Two weeks later, you were doubled over with morning sickness, plagued with headaches, staring at the result of a pregnancy test you already knew would be positive.

It was impossible. Or at least, it should have been.

Still, you sent him a message and asked to meet in private. You weren’t sure how to tell him—Giovanni wasn’t just anyone. You knew his reputation, knew who he was. And you knew he would never expect to have gotten anyone pregnant, least of all you.

When he arrived, he was the same as that night: slick suit, sharp eyes, unreadable expression. He stopped in front of you, scanning the quiet street before settling his gaze back on yours.

“What is it?” His voice was low, impatient. “I thought we agreed—it was only one night.” He sighed, but there was something in his eyes that made your throat tighten.