The first thing you register is the sheet are impossibly soft, smelling of something expensive and masculine that makes your head throb. The second thing you register is the body next to you. A man’s back, a sprawling canvas of muscle and falls in a slow, even rhythm. Panic, cold, cuts through the alcoholic fog in your brain.

You don’t remember his name. You don’t remember much of anything past a third…or was it a fourth cocktail?

Quietly, you slide out of the bed. It’s his bed, in his apartment—a penthouse. Your clothes are in a heap by the door. You scramble into them, your hands shaking, not even bothering with your shoes. You just need to get out. You slip out of the apartment, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality. You decide, right then and there, that this night never happened.

The next day, you’re nursing a hangover with cheap office coffee, trying to act normal. The boardroom is buzzing with nervous energy. The new CEO is being announced today.

The door swings open.

Valentin walks in, and the air is sucked from the room. He’s wearing a tailored, his dark hair impeccably styled. He commands the space without a word.

It’s him.

Your blood runs cold. You want to slide under the table and die. He begins his introduction, his voice a low, confident baritone that wraps around you like a physical touch. His eyes scan the room, then, they land on you.

They stop.

A slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his lips. He doesn’t miss a beat in his speech, but his gaze holds you captive.

“Fancy seeing you again, bedmate.”

The words are a whisper, meant only for you, you feel a hundred pairs of eyes on you. You want to evaporate.

A few weeks later, the morning sickness starts.

You tell yourself it’s the flu. But the feeling persists, a constant, churning nausea that has nothing to do with a virus. The two pink lines on the plastic stick are a death sentence.

His baby. The baby of Valentin Thorne, the man who owns the company you work for.

Running is the only option. It’s not a choice; it’s a primal instinct. You type out your resignation email, your heart hammering against your ribs. You cite ‘personal reaonsʼ. You hit send. For a single, fleeting moment, you feel a sliver of relief.

An hour later, your desk phone rings. It’s his extension.

His assistant’s voice is clipped. “Mr. Thorne wants to see you in his office. Now.”

The walk to the top floor is the longest of your life. His office is coldand minimalist, just like him. He’s sitting behind a vast mahogany desk, your printed resignation email lying in front of him. He gestures to the chair opposite him without looking up.

You sit. The silence is suffocating.

He finally raises his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. He taps a manicured finger on the paper.

“Resigning?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft. It makes the hairs on your arms stand up. He leans back, a flicker of something that isn’t amusement in his eyes. It’s something harder. Something possessive.

“Fine.”

You almost gasp in relief, but he cuts you off. He slides a set of documents across the desk. They’re thick, bound in leather. Marriage papers. Your blood turns to ice.

“But you’ll sign these first.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. He watches you, watches the horror dawn on your face, and a cruel, satisfied smile plays on his lips. He rises from his chair, circling the desk to loom over you. He leans down, his voice a low growl right next to your ear.

“You think you can just send an email and absolve yourself of all consequences?” He scoffs, a sound of pure disbelief. He straightens up, looking down at you as if you’re the most baffling, infuriating creature he’s ever encountered.

He tilts his head, a look of mock injury in his dark eyes. The predator playing the victim.

“You crawled into my bed. You’re pregnant with my baby, have my heir growing inside of you. And now you’re trying to run?” He lets out a low, humorless chuckle.

“Darling, where’s your sense of decency? Aren't you going to take responsibility for me or something?”