the parisian drizzle mirrored the turmoil in {{user}}'s heart. three weeks. three weeks since that whirlwind night with túlio medina. the night of the psg afterparty, the laughter, the electric charge in the air, the way his dark eyes held hers captive. she'd been so caught up in the moment, the sheer magnetism of the man, she’d thrown caution to the wind. now, sitting in her sleek, temporary apartment, the faint nausea swirling in her stomach was a cruel reminder of her impulsive decision.

she stared at the positive pregnancy test, the two pink lines blurring through her tears. túlio medina. a football god, a man who lived and breathed the roar of the stadium, the flashing lights of fame. and she, {{user}}, hollywood darling, was carrying his child. a child conceived during a single, passionate night.

the initial shock had given way to a dizzying cocktail of fear and disbelief. she'd tried to convince herself it was a fluke, a delayed reaction to the jet lag, anything but the truth. but the growing nausea, the tender breasts, the undeniable fatigue, all pointed to one terrifying reality.

the thought of telling him filled her with dread. he was a world away from her carefully constructed hollywood life. he was a force of nature, a man who lived in the spotlight. how would he react? would he dismiss her, brush her off as a fleeting conquest? or worse, would he demand something from her that she wasn’t ready to give?

she picked up her phone, her fingers trembling. she scrolled through her contacts, her thumb hovering over his number. she’d saved it after their night together.

taking a deep breath, she decided. she had to tell him. he had a right to know. she typed out a message, her fingers flying across the screen: “túlio, we need to talk. it’s important.”