Pregnant With My Ex's Ruthless Cousin

I slept with my ex's billionaire cousin. By mistake. Drunk. Heartbroken. Thought he was someone else.

Morning light. Cold eyes. Ethan Reynolds. Untouchable. Disgusted.

I tried to use him for revenge. He tossed a hundred-dollar bill at me in a café. Saved me from a beating, then shoved Plan B into my hand. "Clean up your mess. I don't leave loose ends."

He flew to Europe. Came back with a flawless heiress on his arm. I finally understood—his cruelty was reserved just for girls like me.

I deleted his number. Ready to disappear.

Then nausea hit. The calendar. My cramped bathroom. Blood ran cold.

I never took that pill. One month late.

...

The whiskey wasn't working.

Kassie stared into her empty glass, Jake's laugh echoing in her skull. He hadn't even seen her at the bar. Too busy with his hand on another woman's back, his lips brushing her ear.

Three whiskeys to make her stand up. Three whiskeys to convince her she wasn't the kind of woman who watched her two-year relationship burn to ash.

But it was four whiskeys that made her forget which room was his.

Cold Manhattan air hit her face as she stumbled onto the pavement, her heel catching in a sidewalk grate. Pain shot through her ankle—sharp, immediate—but she yanked her foot free and kept moving. A tomorrow problem.

The hotel loomed across the street, a monolith of glass and steel. The lobby swallowed her whole—lilies and money, that cloying scent she'd always hated. Now it just smelled like the end of everything.

She jabbed the penthouse button in the elevator, watching her reflection in the polished brass. Mascara smudged. Hair escaping. Eyes too wild. A stranger.

The hallway was a dim tunnel of plush carpet. She fumbled for the key card Jake had given her months ago—a gesture she'd mistaken for commitment—but her fingers were clumsy. Her bag spilled. Lipstick. Keys. A compact mirror that cracked when it hit the floor.

"Damn it."

She crouched, head spinning. And saw them.

Black leather shoes. Impeccably polished. The kind Jake wore.

She looked up—tailored trousers, dark suit jacket, broad shoulders, a jaw carved from stone. The face was in shadow, but the silhouette was unmistakable.

It was him.

Three whiskeys and a shattered heart. What could go wrong.

She grabbed his tie and yanked him down to her level. He took a step forward to keep his balance but didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Just looked down at her with cold, assessing eyes.

She caught his scent—cedarwood, something wintry. Similar to Jake's cologne, but sharper. More refined. More dangerous.

"You bastard," she breathed, the words tasting like acid.

Before he could respond, before she could lose her nerve, she rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

His lips were firm and cool, unresponsive for a fraction of a second. She felt a jolt of alarm, a brief moment of clarity that this was a mistake. But then, something shifted.

A hand, large and warm, settled on the small of her back, a shocking point of contact through the thin fabric of her dress. He didn't push her away. Instead, he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss with an authority that stole the breath from her lungs.

This wasn't Jake's kiss. Jake was lazy, selfish. This was deliberate, possessive. A current of pure, unadulterated danger shot through her, but it was too late to turn back.

He broke the kiss only to steer her backward, his hand a firm pressure guiding her until her back hit a solid wood door. There was a soft beep as he swiped a key card. The lock clicked open.

The door swung inward, and they tumbled into the darkness of the suite. The heavy door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into near-total blackness and sealing off the world.

One of her heels caught on the edge of a rug, and she kicked it off, the shoe landing with a soft clatter on the marble floor of the entryway. He disposed of his tie, the silk whispering as it was tossed onto a nearby chair.

His mouth found hers again in the dark, and it was a slow, punishing exploration from the entryway to the bedroom. The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the glittering panorama of the New York City skyline cast long, dancing shadows across a massive king-sized bed.

Their bodies, tangled together, became just another part of that shadowy landscape.

The first thing Kassie registered was the pain. A sharp, throbbing ache behind her eyes that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

The second was the light. A single, merciless spear of morning sun had pierced a gap in the heavy curtains, striking her directly in the face.

She groaned, rolling over and throwing an arm across her eyes. The sheets beside her were cool to the touch. Empty.

A wave of nausea and shame washed over her. She had a vague, fragmented memory of angry words, of a reckless kiss, of falling into bed. With Jake.

The sound of a shower running in the adjoining bathroom made her sit bolt upright. Her head screamed in protest. She clutched the duvet to her bare chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was still here.

The water shut off abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening.

Kassie held her breath as the bathroom door opened. A man emerged, a white towel slung low around his hips. Steam billowed out around him.

He was tall, leanly muscled, his dark hair damp and slicked back from his forehead. He walked with an easy, predatory grace toward the nightstand.

And he was not Jake.

The air rushed out of Kassie's lungs. The man's face was sharper, his jaw more defined, his eyes a colder, more piercing shade of blue. He was older. More formidable. A complete and utter stranger.

He picked up a Patek Philippe watch from the nightstand, his movements economical and precise as he fastened it around his wrist. He didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge her existence.

Finally, after securing the watch, his cold gaze flickered over to her. There was no recognition, no warmth, just a flat, dismissive appraisal.

"Last night was a mistake," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sent a chill down her spine. "A game for adults. It's over."

He turned his back on her, walking over to the chair where his clothes were neatly folded. He dressed with an unnerving efficiency, pulling on a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers. He was all sharp lines and cold angles.

Kassie could only stare, paralyzed by a cocktail of horror and humiliation so potent it made her stomach churn. She had slept with the wrong man.

He shrugged on his suit jacket, his back still to her. Without another word, he walked to the door and pulled it open.

Standing in the hallway, holding two cups of coffee, was another man in a suit. His eyes widened in shock as he took in the scene—his colleague, Ethan, emerging from a hotel room, looking immaculate, while the faint outline of a disheveled woman could be seen in the bed behind him.

Ethan didn't flinch. He simply closed the door, shutting Kassie inside with her shame.