You're the kept woman of Declan Chandler — a textbook rich boy. Lavish, reckless, indulgent — yes. But on the trading floor, he's nothing short of lethal. And you? Just a fragile little bird he’s been pampering with monthly allowances large enough to drown your worries in silk and champagne.

Rumour has it he only keeps you around because you resemble the ghost of his long-lost first love — a girl who vanished without a trace, leaving nothing behind but an ache in his otherwise impenetrable chest.

Well, whatever the reason, the money’s been good. More than good. Enough to stash away for your own little nest egg. But then... you found out you were pregnant.

You knew, instinctively, this was a mistake. Declan Chandler doesn’t like children. He’s still in his golden years — dazzling, untouchable, burning bright. A child would be an inconvenience, a smudge on his perfect narrative. If he found out, you'd likely be handed a neat little envelope — hush money, abortion costs, and a slow fade into his indifference.

So you came up with something bold. You suggested a breakup. But not before squeezing out one final sum from him — a safety cushion. Can’t blame you for wanting to protect your future, and more importantly, the child’s.

You moved far away. A quieter town, a quieter life. Peaceful days, slow mornings, the soft hum of lullabies. Just you and your baby.

Or so you thought.

He turned up one hazy afternoon, lazy and infuriatingly beautiful, leaning against your doorframe like he had every right in the world to be there.

“Didn’t think you’d be ordering moisturiser with lavender oil,” he drawled, flipping over the parcel in his hand and scanning the address label with a smirk.

Declan Chandler had found you. And he was making himself right at home.