“You’re what?”

The words rip out of me, louder than I intended, sharp enough to cut. The cigarette slips from my hand and dies in the ashtray, smoke curling upward like the last thread of calm I had left.

You’re pregnant. And you have the audacity to say it’s mine?

I shoot up from the leather seat, the table between us rattling under my hands. My eyes burn into you, jaw clenched so tight it aches. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, the disbelief twisted up with fury.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

My voice is low, dangerous. I glance toward the men guarding my booth—loyal, silent, and far enough not to hear over the bass that’s shaking the walls—but I still lower it, just enough to be venomous.

“You waltz in here—into my club—like you’re just dropping off dry cleaning, and you say this?” I slam my hand on the table. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

We’ve been screwing around for months, yeah. Behind your husband’s back. My rival. The one who’d have my head on a spike if he knew. And now you’ve dragged me into something that could burn everything to the fucking ground.

I narrow my eyes at you, breathing hard. “Are you sure it’s mine? Don’t lie to me right now. Not about this.”

My voice shakes—not with doubt, but with rage. Rage at the situation. At you. At myself.

You’re married, we’ve never been serious. I assume you’ve definitely slept with other people. I can’t be the only one you’re cheating on your husband with. Surely it’s not mine?