Lena POV

I twisted my arms behind my back, fighting the tiny metal zipper of the spare black dress. The fabric snagged halfway up my spine, refusing to budge.

"Do you need a hand?"

I froze. Adrian stood in the bedroom doorway, holding two ceramic mugs. The scent of dark roast coffee mingled with the crisp cedar still clinging to my skin—his scent, transferred from the white sheets I had just untangled myself from.

There were no blank spots in my memory of last night. No alcohol-induced haze to blame. Every time his hands had moved closer in the dark, he had asked. May I? Is this okay? And every time, I had pulled his head down to answer.

"The zipper is stuck," I muttered, dropping my arms.

"May I?" he asked, setting the mugs on the dresser.

"Yes."

Adrian stepped behind me. His fingers grasped the metal tab, pulling it smoothly to my shoulder blades. His knuckle brushed the bare skin at my nape. The brief contact flashed a sudden, vivid image behind my eyes—my hands gripping his ruined silk tie, pulling him flush against me in the dark. Heat rushed straight to my ears.

He stepped back immediately, handing me a mug and a thick card.

"My personal number," Adrian said, his tone even. "Last night doesn't mean you owe me anything, Lena. I just want to ensure Marco's creditors don't track you down before I handle them."

"I can handle my own problems," I said, staring at the embossed digits.

"You shouldn't have to." His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening. "Excuse me."

While he turned to answer the call, I grabbed my canvas tote and slipped out the door. I didn't look back, and I never noticed the silver L.R. pendant left near the foot of the bed.

Four weeks after I walked out of the penthouse, the scent of crushed juniper berries hit my nose and my stomach violently rebelled.

I slammed the bottle of gin onto the sticky mahogany bar counter, bolted for the employee restroom, and locked the door. I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, splashing cold water on my face until the nausea subsided.

Two hours later, I sat in a sterile clinic waiting room. The doctor handed me a single sheet of paper.

"Based on your last period, you're about six weeks pregnant," the doctor confirmed, pointing to the estimated dates.

I stared at the dates. The conception window pointed to one night.

I returned for the evening shift, mechanically wiping down tables. Above the cash register, the muted television broadcasted Marco and Celeste standing outside a courthouse. Celeste flashed a massive diamond to the cameras.

I reached up and unmuted the screen.

"Marco was simply untangling himself from an immature past relationship," Celeste told the reporter, her tone coated in fake sympathy. "We are thrilled to finally move forward."

Marco leaned into the microphone, adjusting his expensive jacket. "I'd appreciate it if certain people stopped trying to use the Moretti name for a quick payout. My family is done being generous."

I shoved the clinic envelope into my apron, opened my old email account, and backed up every tuition receipt and the thirty-eight-thousand-dollar loan payoff confirmation. Let him talk. I had the records.

At two in the morning, I wiped down the last table. One customer remained.

Adrian sat on the corner stool. His tailored black cashmere overcoat looked entirely out of place against the peeling vinyl. He held his hand over the counter, a silver chain wrapped around his knuckles. My L.R. pendant dangled from his fingers.

"It took me a month," Adrian said, stopping the swinging metal. "I found the jeweler's repair code engraved on the back of the silver. I had my team track their service logs to find your current address."

I threw my damp rag into the sink. "That sounds exactly like stalking, Adrian."

"I prefer thorough," he replied. He didn't deny crossing a line. He simply opened his palm, offering the necklace. "Your choice to take it back."

I reached out and picked it up. The silver felt warm from his skin. I reached behind my neck, trying to fasten the tiny clasp, but my fingers shook. The tiny ring slipped from my grasp twice.

"May I?" Adrian asked, standing up.

I nodded sharply. He stepped behind me. He took the two ends of the chain, his large hands dwarfing the delicate silver. He secured the clasp. The cold metal settled against my collarbone. His thumb rested against my spine for a fraction of a second before he dropped his hands and stepped entirely out of my space.

My chest tightened. His extreme restraint somehow made it harder to breathe than if he had pulled me close.

"Someone went to the underground tables yesterday asking about you," Adrian stated, leaning against the edge of the bar. "The forged contract didn't vanish. The debt just shifted to a different collector. You need to pack your things and move to my estate."

"I'm not trading one cage for a nicer one," I shot back, crossing my arms. "I can handle myself."

He pulled a pen from his inner pocket, wrote an address on a square napkin, and slid it across the wood. "The gates keep the press out. They keep Marco out. The choice is yours."

Before I could push the napkin back, the front door slammed open.

Marco marched in with Celeste and a man carrying a leather briefcase.

"We're serving you a formal cease and desist," Marco announced, slapping a manila folder onto the nearest table. "If you contact the media about our engagement—"

His voice died when he noticed Adrian near the register. His eyes jumped from his uncle's face to the silver necklace at my collarbone.

Celeste missed the warning. She looked me over and sneered. "Did the little waitress finally find a richer man to fund her?"

Adrian rose from the stool. "Call her a gold digger again."

The quiet challenge drained the color from Marco's face. He caught Celeste by the elbow. "We're leaving."

"Not until she signs," Celeste snapped.

"She isn't signing anything tonight," Adrian said. "And if your lawyer wants to threaten her, he can do it through counsel instead of in her workplace."

The man with the briefcase immediately closed it. Marco pulled Celeste toward the door, shooting me a look that promised this was not finished. A moment later, the bar was quiet again.

I exhaled and stepped back. My hip struck the cash register drawer. The clinic envelope slipped from my apron and landed face-up on the floor.

Adrian bent first. Through the clear window, the blue clinic logo sat above one word: Prenatal.

He did not open the envelope. He simply held it out to me.

When I took it, his gaze lifted to mine.

"Lena," he said quietly. "Are you pregnant?"