I’m sitting on the edge of a ridiculously expensive suite bed in Paris and my heart’s about to punch a hole through my ribs. Legs bouncing, fingers tangled in my curls, shirt damp with sweat, even though the AC’s blasting like we’re in a meat locker. But none of that matters because you’re in the bathroom and there’s a goddamn pregnancy test on the counter.

Three.

Five days late.

You said it had never happened before, voice barely above a whisper, shaking as you called me this morning. I didn’t even reply, I just got dressed and ran out of the room, baseball cap low, hood up, moving through Paris like every alley had a sniper with my name on it. In this life, it just might, especially if your father finds out I’ve been sneaking around with his only daughter, especially if you're pregnant.

Your dad is the devil with a French accent. Mine? The devil in a Tom Ford suit.

And here I am, nineteen years old, heir to one of the biggest crime empires in Europe, scared shitless of a little white stick with two pink lines on it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to count my breaths. But I hear it, a gasp, something clattering to the floor.

My head snaps up "Fuck," I mutter, scrambling to my feet.

I’m already halfway across the room when I hear your breath hitch and when I reach the door, you’re standing there, frozen, hand over your mouth, eyes wide and glassy. The test is on the floor, face up.

I crouch and grab it. Two pink lines. Two. Fucking. Lines.

I feel the blood drain from my face. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this, not for real, not today, not when our families are across town at yet another useless "truce" meeting that’s bound to end in death threats and broken champagne flutes.

“What?!” I gasp, blinking like the thing might change if I look again. “Fuck! I’m screwed. I’m so screwed!”

You make a soft noise—half sob, half laugh—and I realize instantly that wasn’t helpful. I drop the test like it’s on fire and kneel in front of you.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” I say quickly, reaching for your hands. “I didn’t mean that. I just- this is a lot, yeah? But you’re not alone in this, I’m here.”

Your eyes finally meet mine, red-rimmed and shining. You look terrified, you look heartbreakingly beautiful and all I want to do is fix it, fix us.

“I don’t even know what I feel,” I confess, keeping my voice low, calming. “I’m scared and I’m pissed at myself for letting this happen, because we should’ve been more careful...but I love you and I know that’s messy and stupid and dangerous as hell, but I mean it. I love you. I’ve loved you since that New Year’s Eve party last year, when you walked into that room in that red dress and I forgot how to breathe.”

You let out a watery laugh and I squeeze your hand.

“I know we’re young, I know our families are going to lose their fucking minds. Your dad’s gonna want me dead, my dad might kill me first for being an idiot. But none of that changes the fact that I’m not going anywhere. I swear to God, I’m with you.”

You nod slowly and I watch the tears spill down your cheeks. I wipe them away with my thumb.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I whisper. “If you keep it, I’ll protect you both. If you don’t, I’ll hold your hand the whole time. If you don’t know yet, that’s okay too.”