Waking up hungover next to my arch-nemesis – the city's most notorious fuckboy? Worst. Morning. Ever. I handled the walk of shame with icy dignity, but fate had a bigger curveball: one month later, two pink lines.

My baby. My rules. His involvement? Zero.

My flawless plan hit a snag when morning sickness ambushed me in the office restroom. He walked in. His eyes locked onto my still-flat stomach, darkening with something dangerous. Before I could blink, he had me pinned against the cold tile wall.

"Who's the father?" he growled.

I met his glare with a frosty smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know? Definitely not you."

Then it happened: a hot tear hit my neck. His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Don't... don't leave me. Please."

Me: ...Dude. Seriously? THIS IS YOURS!

– The Morning After

“Don’t scream,” came a groggy voice beside me.

I froze.

My eyes cracked open. Sunlight stabbed through unfamiliar blinds, scattering gold across the cedar-paneled ceiling. I was in Mia’s guestroom. Tequila. Karaoke. The bar. My head throbbed like a jackhammer on concrete.

The bed dipped.

I turned—too fast—and groaned.

Andrew Drake blinked at me, hair mussed, shirtless, and utterly unfazed. “Well, this is new.”

I yanked the sheet up to my collarbone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “But judging by the underwear situation… we may already know.”

“No. No, no. This didn’t happen.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “You mean the part where you begged me to sing Bon Jovi and then dared me to out-drink you?”

“That’s not what I—God.”

I threw off the covers, found my bra tangled in a lamp, and my dress crumpled on a chair. My heels were in separate corners of the room like casualties of war.

He leaned back, arms crossed behind his head like a smug god. “At least tell me I was decent. Or was it just checklist sex with the project manager from hell?”

We’d spent our childhood locked in friendly warfare—science fairs, spelling bees, even soccer try‑outs.

Andrew Drake was the rival who pushed every button I had and sharpened every edge I owned.

So waking up next to him felt less like fate and more like an impossible tie‑breaker neither of us had planned.

I yanked my dress over my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked. “So I’ve been told. By you. Many, many times.”

“Fine,” I hissed. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Pretend what didn’t happen?” he teased, sitting up. “You moaning my name in E minor?”

I glared. “You’re disgusting.”

He stood, bare-chested and infuriatingly unbothered. “You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“I was drunk.”

“So was I. But we still danced. Remember that?” His tone dropped, suddenly sincere. “You sang off-key. I spun you. You didn’t push me away.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

We dressed in silence, buttoning guilt and awkwardness into place.

At the doorway, he paused. “So… this stays between us?”

“Obviously.”

His smirk returned. “Good. Don’t want to ruin your checklist-girl rep.”

I shoved past him. “Don’t want to taint your investor-prince persona either.”

We walked down Mia’s hallway like strangers wearing each other’s secrets. He peeled off toward the kitchen. I stepped into the elevator alone.

His cologne clung to my skin.

Every metallic ding sounded like a dare I wasn’t ready to name.

By the time I slid into a cab, my heartbeat had settled, but not the ache in my gut. I pressed my forehead against the glass. Streetlights blurred.

The driver asked, “Good night?”

I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

“…Yeah,” I whispered. “I guess it was.”

– Office Whispers

“Where’d you disappear to Friday night?” Marla asked, leaning over my cubicle wall with her third espresso.

“Home. Migraine.” I didn’t look up from my screen.

“Uh-huh.” She waggled her brows. “Because someone said they saw you dancing with Andrew Drake. And by dancing, I mean… hands. Bodies. Prolonged eye contact.”

I clicked aggressively into the zoning variance spreadsheet. “That someone needs glasses.”

Across the atrium, Andrew stood by the espresso bar, chatting with two interns. He kissed one on the hand. The other giggled like it was a Jane Austen adaptation. I hated how his sleeves were rolled perfectly. I hated how I noticed.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a column to design?”

Marla snorted. “Fine, fine. But if he proposes during the structural review meeting, I’m calling dibs on your office.”

She disappeared just as fast. I exhaled and leaned back, suddenly dizzy. Lines on the screen swam. My stomach turned.

I shut my laptop and stood.

I told myself it was probably nothing—too many late nights and lattes, nothing a weekend of sleep couldn’t fix.

One month later, the dizziness hadn’t eased; it had multiplied, pinwheeling every time I stood.

At the corner bodega, I bought ginger ale, saltines, and—because I was apparently starring in a teen drama—three pregnancy tests. I told myself it was just stress. Hormones. Delayed cycle. Work deadlines. Not tequila and cedar and Andrew’s hand on my waist as I sang Bon Jovi like a drunk idiot.

Back home, I paced the bathroom like it might change the results. The test strip lay on the counter like a loaded weapon.

Three minutes.

I turned on the fan. I counted ceiling tiles. I avoided looking.

I looked.

One line. Faint second.

No.

I tried the second test.

Pink.

Third test.

Double lines.

I sat on the floor, tile cold against my spine, staring at the evidence lined up like little tombstones of sanity.

Somewhere in my apartment, my phone buzzed.

A text from Claire:

**“Did you survive Friday? Also, what was up with you and Andrew? ?”**

I turned the screen face-down.

At work tomorrow, people would still talk about karaoke. About interns and cronuts. About office romances and hallway whispers.

But I would know something they didn’t.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. Nothing. Just silence.

Just the quietest, scariest maybe of my life.

– Double Lines and Doubts

Mercy Hospital’s waiting room smelled like lemon cleaner and unspoken dread.

I kept my head down, hoodie up, sunglasses on despite the fluorescent lights. No one here knew me. No one had to.

Except him.

Andrew Drake.

I froze mid-step.

He strolled through the double doors like a VIP guest star—pressed shirt, hand resting on the lower back of a tall brunette in stilettos. They were laughing. Her hand lingered on his chest like it belonged there.

My stomach twisted harder than morning sickness ever could.

I turned away, heart hammering. The appointment card in my purse cut into my fingers. Room 207. Ultrasound.

I didn’t move.

I stared at the wall clock for thirty full seconds, then bolted.

Outside, the sun was too bright, the sky too blue. I walked. Fast. No direction, just away. My flats blistered my heels before I even crossed the third block, but I didn’t stop.

Not until I reached the riverwalk.

There, I ripped the appointment card in half, then in half again, until the pieces were tiny and pitiful and shaking in my hand.

He had someone.

Of course he did.

Why wouldn’t he?

He was Andrew Drake—architect prodigy, media darling, professional charmer.

I was Fiona Hayes. Checklist girl. Oops.

A seagull shrieked above. I wished I could.

When I finally dragged myself home, I collapsed on the couch and Googled “how to be a single mom” like it was just another project brief.

Budget calculators. Morning workout videos with smiling women. A forum thread titled *‘How to tell your ex he’s not the father if he’s already someone else’s boyfriend.’*

I shut the laptop.

Stared at the ceiling.

Listened to my heartbeat thudding like a metronome out of sync.

The shredded appointment slip still poked out of my coat pocket.

I left it there.

Like a reminder.

Like a wound.