Waking up in the penthouse suite of my arch-nemesis—Chicago real estate's most notorious playboy, Rhys Montgomery? It was, without a doubt, the worst morning of my life. I survived the walk of shame, my dignity in shreds, but fate had a bigger bombshell waiting: a month later, a pregnancy test displayed a single, damning word: PREGNANT.

My baby. My secret. My blueprint. His involvement? Not an option.

My perfect plan shattered when morning sickness ambushed me in a glass-walled conference room. And he saw me. His gaze locked on my still-flat stomach, his eyes darkening. Before I could breathe, he had me pinned against the cold glass.

"Who's the father?" he growled.

I met his glare with an icy, practiced smile. "Dying to know? I can assure you, it's not you."

Then, the unthinkable happened. His eyes shuttered, his expression cracking. "Don't… don't shut me out," he pleaded, his voice raw and desperate. "Please."

I froze. Was this some kind of twisted joke?

Because the baby is his.

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1

"Don't scream," a drowsy voice murmured beside me.

I froze.

I pried my eyes open. Sunlight pierced floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden sheen on an unfamiliar, coffered ceiling. I was in Rhys Montgomery's penthouse suite. After Olivia's charity gala. Champagne. An auction. An argument on the balcony. My head was pounding like a jackhammer on concrete.

The mattress dipped.

I turned—too fast—and groaned.

Rhys Montgomery blinked at me, his dark hair a rumpled mess and his bare chest on full display. He looked completely unfazed. "Well. This is a plot twist."

I clutched the silk sheets to my collarbone. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "But judging by the state of that evening gown… I think we both know the answer."

"No. No, no, no. This did not happen."

Rhys raised an eyebrow. "You mean the part on the balcony where you tore my urban planning proposal to shreds, then dared me to prove how much better your designs were than mine?"

"I didn't mean it like—oh, God."

I threw back the covers to find my lingerie dangling from a designer lamp and my couture gown crumpled on a chair. My heels were scattered across the room like casualties of war.

He leaned back, lacing his arms behind his head like a smug, self-satisfied god. "At least tell me I was memorable. Or was this just another notch on the Blueprint Queen's bedpost?"

From Ivy League design competitions to the battle for the Chicago skyline, we'd been sharpening our edges on each other our entire lives.

Rhys Montgomery was the one nemesis who got under my skin, the one who made me better by daring me to be my best.

So waking up next to him didn't feel like destiny. It felt like an impossible stalemate neither of us had seen coming.

I pulled the dress over my head. "You're impossible."

He smirked. "So I've been told. By you. Repeatedly."

"Fine," I hissed. "We will never speak of this again."

"Speak of what?" he asked, sitting up, his tone pure provocation. "The part where you moaned my name in B-flat?"

I glared at him. "You're disgusting."

He stood, naked and infuriatingly at ease. "You kissed me first."

"I was drunk."

"So was I. But for a minute there, after our fight on the balcony, we were honest. Remember?" His voice suddenly dropped, deepening. "You didn't push me away."

My mouth opened. Then snapped shut.

We dressed in a tense silence, buttoning up our respective layers of guilt and regret like two rivals concluding a hostile takeover.

At the door, he paused. "So… this stays between us?"

"Obviously."

That infuriating smirk returned. "Good. Wouldn't want to tarnish your 'Blueprint Queen' reputation."

I shouldered past him. "And I wouldn't want to compromise your 'Prince of the Chicago Skyline' brand."

He called a car for me. Riding the elevator down alone, his expensive cologne—leather and cedar—still clung to my skin, a scent I couldn't escape.

Every floor the elevator descended felt like a secret being buried deeper inside me.

By the time I sank into the back of the car, my heartbeat had steadied, but the acid churning in my stomach hadn't. I pressed my forehead against the cool window, watching the Chicago streetlights blur into streaks of light.

"Have a good night?" the driver asked cheerfully.

I bit my lip until I tasted copper.

"…Yes," I whispered. "I think I did."

"Did you see this?" Tessa asked, popping her head over my cubicle wall, phone in hand. "A pic of you and Rhys Montgomery going at it on the balcony last night just hit Arch-Gossip."

"Rumors. We were discussing a project," I said, keeping my eyes locked on the screen.

"Right." She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Because the rumor is you nearly shoved him off the balcony. And by 'shoved,' I mean hands, body, and eye contact that could melt steel."

I clicked open a complex CAD file, a little too forcefully. "That source needs to get their eyes checked."

Across the atrium, Rhys was leaning against the coffee bar, effortlessly charming some socialite trying to get into real estate. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled, tilting her head back like he'd just delivered the wittiest line in history. I hated the perfect way his shirtsleeves were rolled up his forearms. I hated even more that I noticed.

I cleared my throat. "Don't you have a model to print?"

Tessa huffed. "Fine, fine. But I'm calling dibs on your corner office if he declares all-out war over the next landmark project."

She vanished. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and leaned back in my chair. A sudden wave of nausea rolled over me, making the lines on my monitor swim. My stomach churned.

I snapped my laptop shut and stood.

It was nothing, I told myself. Too many late nights, too much caffeine. A weekend of sleep would fix it.

A month later, the morning sickness hadn't gone away; it had intensified. The world tilted precariously every time I stood up too fast.

At the corner drugstore, I bought seltzer, saltine crackers, and—because I was apparently now the star of my own terrible romantic comedy—three different brands of pregnancy tests. It was just stress, I rationalized. Hormones. A late period. Project deadlines. It was not champagne and a penthouse and Rhys's hands on my waist as I drunkenly argued with him over who owned the goddamn skyline.

Back home, I paced the length of my bathroom as if the motion could somehow alter reality. The three tests lay on the marble counter, a jury waiting to deliver its verdict.

Three minutes.

I turned on the exhaust fan. I counted the floor tiles. I tried not to look.

I looked.

Two pink lines.

And another two pink lines.

No.

I snatched up the third, the digital one, my hand shaking.

The screen was brutally clear: PREGNANT.

PREGNANT.

It felt like being handed an impossible building commission, a fatal miscalculation. I sank to the floor, the cold bathroom tiles a shock against my spine.

Somewhere in the apartment, my phone buzzed.

A text from Chloe:

"Survived the gala? And what's the real story with you and Rhys?"

I flipped the phone facedown on the floor.

Tomorrow at the office, people would keep gossiping about the same petty rivalries. About who landed the new high-rise. About whispers in conference rooms.

But I would be walking around with a secret big enough to change the entire Chicago skyline.

I placed a hand on my still-flat stomach. There was nothing there. Just a silent, terrifying, foundational truth.

My career. My future. My baby.