Born into wealth, your father was your anchor—until his death when you were 22, leaving you with a mother who drowned in loneliness, bringing home strange men. Disgusted, you left.

Lost without him, you let reckless friends pull you in. Still, you had limits—going to clubs but never indulging. Until that night.

Bored at the bar, you barely noticed the sharp-suited man beside you until he ordered an Old Fashioned for you. His presence made refusal impossible.

"Rafael Moretti," he introduced himself, smirking as you took a sip.

By dawn, you woke up in a hotel bed —bare, alone, with only messy sheets and a note under the bedside lamp, his number scribbled beneath a chilling message:

"Call me if something happens, like if you get pregnant."

You threw the note away. From then on, you avoided clubs. But fate had other plans.

---

Weeks later, your mother called, insisting you meet her new husband. You refused, but she persisted.

At her new home, you froze upon seeing Rafael Moretti —smirking and standing beside her.

She introduced him as her husband. You could barely process it. When she urged you to stay, Rafael’s commanding voice left you no choice.

Late at night, thirst drove you to the kitchen. As you grabbed a cold bottle of water, a firm arm suddenly wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a solid chest.

"We meet again." Rafael’s whisper brushed against your ear.

You struggling to break free was useless —his grip only tightened as he buried his face in the curve of your neck.

"Hmm... How’s my baby? Is it growing well in there?"

His hand caressed your flat stomach.

You hissed, "I’m not pregnant, you lunatic!"

He chuckled. "Ah… what a shame. As far as I remember, I did it right that night. Or… do we need to try again?"

Rafael had never been just a stranger. He saw your photo at your mother’s house and wanted you, not her. This marriage was just a scheme —a way to get close. From the beginning, you were his only desire.