Ariana's POV

I don't know what kind of masochist part of me thought this was a good idea.

Tracking down Adrian Cole should've been at the bottom of my list - below laundry, below unclogging my sink, below literally anything else. But here I am, standing in the lobby of a high-end lounge where I know he spends his nights, praying my legs don't give out under me.

The place smells like expensive liquor and ego. Velvet couches, chandeliers dripping crystal, laughter spilling out from men in tailored suits and women draped across them like accessories.

And then I see him.

Adrian.

My stomach lurches.

Same face as Damian. Same jawline. Same piercing eyes. Same build. But where Damian is sharp control and pressed suits, Adrian is chaos. His tie is loose, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, tattoos peeking from the collar. His smirk is wide, lazy, like he knows the world exists for his entertainment.

And he's surrounded. Of course he is. Women on both sides, one perched in his lap, his arm draped around her like she's nothing more than decoration.

My heart pounds. Every step I take toward him feels heavier than the last.

He looks up when I'm just a few feet away. His smirk falters.

"Well, well," Adrian drawls, sliding the girl off his lap. "If it isn't my favorite one-night stand."

Rage burns hot in my chest. "You son of a...."

"Careful, sweetheart." He leans back, eyes glinting. "Pregnant women shouldn't raise their blood pressure."

The women around him giggle nervously before drifting away. He waves his hand at them like he's dismissing servants.

Now it's just us.

I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles whiten. "You knew. You knew I thought you were your brother."

His smirk widens. "You didn't seem to mind at the time."

The words hit me like a slap. My throat closes. "You're disgusting."

He shrugs, grabbing his drink, swirling the amber liquid lazily. "Don't act like I forced you. You were eager enough."

My hand trembles. I want to throw his glass in his smug face. "I'm pregnant, Adrian. With your child."

His expression doesn't change. He takes a slow sip of whiskey, then sets the glass down. "Not my problem."

My chest caves. "Not your problem?"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locking with mine. "Listen, babe. I don't do diapers. I don't do 3 a.m. feedings. And I definitely don't do family."

The casual cruelty in his tone makes my stomach twist. "You think you can just walk away?"

"I will walk away," he says smoothly. "Because I didn't sign up for this. You want a baby? That's on you. Don't come crying to me for help."

My eyes sting. "I'm not asking for help. I'm asking for responsibility."

He smirks again, leaning back. "And I'm telling you and no thanks. I've got better things to do."

Tears blur my vision, but fury steadies me. "You're a coward."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "But at least I'm honest about it."

The door behind me opens, and a chill runs down my spine. I don't have to turn to know who it is.

Damian.

He steps into the room like a storm in a suit, his gaze slicing straight to his brother. "Adrian."

Adrian grins, spreading his arms. "Look who finally decided to join the party. Come to clean up after me again, brother?"

Damian's jaw tightens. "You crossed a line this time."

Adrian laughs, tilting his head back. "Please. Don't tell me you're playing knight in shining armor for her." He gestures at me like I'm trash. "She was just another night. You know how it goes."

My stomach twists. "Don't talk about me like that."

Adrian's eyes glint. "Oh, but that's what you were. A night. Fun, sure. Memorable? Maybe. But not worth this drama."

Damian steps forward, his voice ice. "She's carrying your child."

Adrian snorts. "So? Not the first time someone's claimed that. Won't be the last."

My breath catches. "You bastard."

Adrian leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Let me guess. You want me to play daddy? To show up at Lamaze classes and hold your hand at the hospital? Sorry, sweetheart. That's not my role. I'm not built for that."

Damian's voice is low, lethal. "You're not built for anything except destruction."

"Always so dramatic," Adrian says, rolling his eyes. "Relax. She'll be fine. Single moms are all the rage these days."

My knees weaken, but I force myself to stand taller. "You think this is funny? You think walking away makes you strong?"

Adrian's grin fades, his expression sharpening. "No, sweetheart. Walking away makes me free."

For a second, the weight of his words crushes me. My chest tightens, my throat burns, my vision blurs.

But then I look at him-at his smug, careless face, at the way he thinks this is just another game-and something inside me hardens.

"You know what, Adrian?" My voice shakes, but it's loud. Strong. "You're pathetic. You think you're free, but really? You're just empty. You'll spend your whole life running from responsibility, and one day, you'll look around and realize you've got nothing. No family. No one who loves you. Just an empty bottle and a broken name."

His smirk falters. Just a little.

Damian's eyes flick toward me, something unreadable in them.

Adrian grabs his glass, downs the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, and slams it down. "Enjoy your speech, sweetheart. Because that's all it is. Words. I don't care. And I never will."

The finality in his voice slices through me, but I don't let him see me break. Not here. Not now.

I turn on my heel, shoving past Damian, my vision blurred with tears.

As I reach the door, I hear Damian's voice, low and cold, rumbling like thunder. "You'll regret this, Adrian."

Adrian laughs. "I never regret anything."

But his laughter sounds hollow.

And I don't look back.

Damian's POV

There are moments when I wonder why I don't just let it all burn.

Adrian. His scandals. His messes. His endless trail of chaos that somehow always ends up at my feet.

But then I remember the last name we share. Cole. And that name means something. At least, it's supposed to.

Tonight though... watching Ariana Blake storm out of that lounge with tears in her eyes, carrying a baby my brother created and discarded?

Something twists in my chest I don't have a name for.

Guilt. Responsibility. Rage.

Maybe all three.

Adrian slouches back in his seat, pouring another glass of whiskey like none of this matters. "Well, that was fun," he says, smirking. "I give her credit, a fiery little thing. You sure you don't want her? She might spice up that cold life of yours."

I want to break the glass in his hand. "She's carrying your child, Adrian. And you laughed in her face."

He shrugs. "Better she learns now than later. I'm not father material."

"You're not human material." My voice is low, sharp.

"Careful, brother." He grins, but there's no humor in it. "You're starting to sound like Dad. And we both know how much fun he was."

My jaw tightens. He knows exactly where to stab. "This isn't about our father. This is about you. You've destroyed lives before, but this-this is different. There's a baby involved."

Adrian rolls his eyes. "And you'll swoop in, right? Play the savior. You always do."

My fists curl. "Someone has to."

For a second, his smirk slips. Just a second. Then it's back, wide and sharp. "Good luck, brother. She hates you almost as much as she hates me."

I leave before I do something I can't take back.

My penthouse feels colder than usual when I walk in. The city skyline glows outside the glass walls, but it doesn't impress me tonight. Nothing does.

I loosen my tie, drop my jacket, pour myself a drink, and sit in silence.

Ariana's voice won't leave my head.

"You think this is about your reputation? I care about my baby."

She's right.

But I can't let her see that.

Because if I start caring, if I let that wall crack, then I'm trapped. And I can't afford to be trapped , not by her fire, not by her tears, not by a child that isn't mine.

I take a long swallow of whiskey. It doesn't help.

I see her again, standing in that exam room, glaring at me with eyes full of fury and fear. Telling me to stay away. Pulling her hand out of mine like my touch burned her.

And yet...

I couldn't stop myself.

I told her she wasn't alone. I told her Adrian would destroy her.

Because it's true.

And because the thought of her fighting this battle by herself makes something in my chest ache in a way I can't explain.

The next morning, my assistant barges into my office with a tablet in her hand. "Sir... you need to see this."

I glance up from the contracts on my desk. "What now?"

She slides the tablet toward me.

There it is.

Video from the restaurant. Ariana storming in. Slapping me. Shouting that she's pregnant. Vanessa storming out. The entire scene captured from three angles, already viral.

"Half the city's talking about it," my assistant says carefully. "The board wants answers. And..." She hesitates. "So does the press."

I close my eyes briefly, fighting the urge to slam my fist into the desk.

Of course. I knew this was coming. Ariana warned me.

But seeing it-seeing myself splashed across headlines as the cheating billionaire, the scandalized lover, the man who knocked up a stranger-makes my blood boil.

"Get PR on it," I say tightly. "Damage control, now. And keep Vanessa quiet. She'll try to milk this if we don't shut her down."

"Yes, sir." My assistant hesitates again. "What about... the woman?"

My jaw tightens. The woman. Ariana.

"She's off-limits to the press," I say finally. "If anyone comes near her, I'll bury them."

My assistant nods quickly and leaves.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face.

Why do I care?

She humiliated me in public. She screamed accusations that weren't even true. She threw my life into chaos.

And yet...

I can't stop thinking about her.

Her fire. Her stubbornness. The way she looked when she pressed her hand protectively over her stomach, even as she stood toe-to-toe with me.

She doesn't want my help. She made that clear.

But whether she likes it or not, she's in my orbit now.

And Adrian sure as hell isn't going to lift a finger.

Which leaves me.

Always me.

That night, I pour another drink, staring out over the glittering city.

I should hate her.

But all I feel is guilt.

For my brother. For my family name. For a baby that isn't mine but is still somehow my responsibility.

And maybe, just maybe, for the way she makes me feel something I've spent years burying.

The phone buzzes.

It's a message from an unknown number.

Stay away from Ariana Blake if you know what's good for you.

I stare at the screen, fury sparking low in my chest.

Adrian.

Of course.

I toss the phone down and grab my jacket.

Because no matter how much she hates me, no matter how much I try to stay detached...

I can't let her fight this alone.

Not when I know exactly how dangerous Adrian can be.

Ariana's POV

The internet has teeth. Sharp ones.

By the third day after the restaurant fiasco, I've been chewed and spat out across every gossip blog in the city.

"Billionaire Caught in Secret Affair."

"Damian Cole's Mystery Woman Exposed."

"Pregnant Scandal Shakes Cole Empire."

My name. My face. My body. All plastered online like I'm a circus act.

I slam my phone down on the counter and bury my head in my hands.

I didn't ask for this. I didn't want any of it.

He didn't use a condom like he said he would.

And yet here I am, public enemy number one for daring to carry the wrong man's baby.

A sharp knock rattles my door. I jerk upright, heart hammering.

Please, God, not reporters.

I creep toward the peephole, holding my breath.

And of course.

Damian Cole.

As if he doesn't have enough skyscrapers to haunt, he has to bring his cold, controlled energy into my tiny apartment building. He's standing there in another immaculate suit, hands shoved in his pockets like he has all the time in the world.

I mutter a curse and open the door halfway. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk." His voice is low, steady, with that commanding tone that makes people move before they think.

"Yeah, no. Not happening." I start to close the door.

His hand shoots out, stopping it with ease. "Ariana."

The way he says my name, firm, certain, makes my stomach twist.

"You don't get to just show up," I snap. "This is my space. My life. You've already ruined enough of it."

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't back down. "I'm not here to argue. I'm here to make things easier for you."

I bark out a laugh. "Easier? Oh, please. You being here makes everything harder."

And then, because Damian Cole has the subtlety of a bulldozer, he pushes past me like the apartment belongs to him.

"Hey!" I slam the door shut and whirl on him. "What part of no do you not understand?"

He's already scanning my apartment like he's conducting an audit. His gaze flicks over the cracked coffee table, the worn-out couch, the stack of unpaid bills on the counter. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"This is where you live?"

My cheeks burn. "Not all of us have penthouses with city views and kitchens bigger than my entire place."

He doesn't respond. He just turns back to me, his expression unreadable. "Sit down. We need to discuss this."

"I'm not your employee, Damian." I fold my arms. "You don't get to order me around."

"Then consider it a negotiation." His voice is smooth, clipped. "You'll want to hear what I'm offering."

Against my better judgment, I sink onto the couch, mostly because my legs feel weak. He sits across from me, taking up too much space in my tiny living room.

"Fine," I snap. "Talk."

He steeples his fingers, every inch the billionaire CEO. "I'll take care of your expenses. Medical bills. Rent. Living costs. You'll want for nothing during your pregnancy or after."

For a beat, silence hangs between us.

Then I laugh. Loud. Bitter.

"You've got to be kidding me."

He doesn't flinch. "I'm serious."

"You think you can just buy me off? Throw a stack of cash at me like I'm some problem you can outsource?"

"It's not about buying you off," he says evenly. "It's about making sure you and the baby are taken care of."

"Taken care of?" I shoot to my feet. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound like you're hiring a nanny, not talking to the woman carrying your brother's child."

His gaze sharpens. "Don't twist this. I know Adrian. He won't lift a finger. That leaves me. I'm offering stability where there would otherwise be none."

I jab a finger at him. "You're offering control. That's what this is about. You can't stand the idea of something slipping through your perfect fingers."

His jaw ticks, but his voice stays calm. Too calm. "You're letting your pride blind you. Money solves problems. That's a fact."

"Not this problem." My voice cracks, but I don't back down. "Money won't erase what happened. It won't stop the whispers. It won't fix the nights I cry myself to sleep wondering how the hell I'm supposed to do this alone."

Something flickers in his eyes then. Guilt. Maybe even regret.

But it's gone as quickly as it came.

"I can't undo Adrian," he admits quietly. "But I can stop you from suffering because of him."

I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself tight. "I don't need your charity."

"This isn't charity." His voice hardens. "It's strategy. You're in the middle of a storm you can't possibly weather on your own. You need backup."

"I need honesty. Humanity. Not a damn check."

He stands now too, towering over me, his eyes boring into mine. "You think this is about feelings? Feelings don't protect you from the press. They don't pay hospital bills. They don't keep a roof over your head when people are circling like sharks."

My throat tightens, but I force the words out. "I've survived worse. Alone. I'll survive this."

For the first time, his calm cracks. His voice rises, sharp and frustrated. "You're impossible."

"And you're infuriating."

We stand there, barely a foot apart, glaring like we could set each other on fire.

The silence between us is so loud it hums in my ears.

Finally, he exhales, low and harsh. "Fine. Have it your way. But when everything comes crashing down, don't say I didn't warn you."

He strides toward the door, yanks it open, and pauses with his back still to me.

"You don't have to like me. You don't have to want my help. But sooner or later, you'll realize you need it."

And then he's gone.

The door clicks shut, leaving me standing in my tiny living room with my heart pounding and my hands shaking.

I sink onto the couch, burying my face in my hands.

Because as much as I hate him, as much as I want to scream until my throat bleeds....

Part of me knows he's right.

The wolves are circling.

And I don't know how much longer I can hold them off alone.