THE WRONG MAN'S BABY

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.