My Accidental Baby With The CEO

Episode 2 –For My Father's Surgery

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*_ - For My Father's Surgery_

The Velvet Bar smelled like expensive perfume, cheap alcohol, and bad decisions.

10pm. Lagos was alive outside but in here the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

I was standing in the VIP section wearing a short red dress that wasn’t mine. Mike, Caleb’s PA, had handed it to me 10 minutes ago. "Boss’s orders."

It was two sizes too small and the straps kept slipping off my shoulders.

Caleb sat on a leather couch. Suit jacket off. White shirt unbuttoned at the top. A glass of whiskey in his hand. Watching me like a hawk watches prey.

Mike leaned in close. I could smell cigarettes on him.

"Boss says you dance. 30 minutes. ₦500k. For your dad."

My face burned so hot I thought I’d pass out.

"I’m not a stripper." The words came out small. Broken.

Mike shrugged. "Then your dad dies. St. Mary’s needs the deposit by midnight. Your choice, *26 year old single mum*."

Jasmine’s face flashed in my head. My baby. Sleeping at Mama Tolu’s house because we had nowhere else to go. "Mummy don’t cry," she’d said this morning while hugging my leg.

My dad’s frail voice from yesterday on the phone: "My strong girl. Don’t give up."

The music started. Deep bass. Slow. Seductive.

I hated every second of it. I hated Caleb for making me. I hated myself for saying yes.

But I danced. Because ₦500k meant surgery. Because ₦500k meant dad lived. Because ₦500k meant Jasmine wouldn’t lose her grandfather.

I kept my eyes on the floor. On the lights. On the walls. Anywhere but on him.

But I could feel his eyes on me. Burning. Judging. Wanting.

Every time I moved, I felt his gaze like hands on my skin.

When the song ended, my legs were shaking. I was sweating and humiliated and so angry I wanted to scream and break something.

Caleb tossed a thick brown envelope on the glass table.

"Good girl," he said coldly. Like he was talking to a dog.

I reached for it with trembling hands.

He grabbed my wrist before I could. His hand was warm and strong and it sent a jolt up my arm.

"You look familiar, Isabella."

I yanked my hand back. "Maybe you saw me on TV. Desperate single mums segment."

He laughed. No humor in it. Just a dark, tired sound.

"Go home. Be at my office 8am tomorrow. As my secretary."

"And Isabella?"

"What?"

"Don’t be late. Desperate people who are late don’t get second chances."

Outside, the Lagos air hit me like a slap. Humid and dirty. I made it to the gutter before I vomited. The dress. The shame. The ₦500k burning a hole in my bag.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number:

_Isabella, I saw you at the bar. So the great Isabella Peterson is a stripper now? Daddy must be so proud. - Jessica_

Jessica. My stepsister. Of course she was there. Snapping pictures probably.

Before I could process that, another message came in.

Unknown number:

_You dance like someone I used to know. 7 years ago. One night. In a cheap hotel. You were 19. - C_

My blood ran cold.

My fingers went numb.

One night. 7 years ago.

A hotel room. Cheap curtains. Me drunk at my best friend’s birthday.

A stranger. A ₦100k note on the dresser. A note that said _"We don’t talk about this."_

That was the night I got pregnant with Jasmine.

I stared at the message until the screen went dark. My reflection looked back at me. Messy hair, ruined makeup, broken.

Could Caleb Moore... be Jasmine’s father?

The ₦500k in my bag suddenly felt like it was on fire.

_Could Caleb Moore... be Jasmine’s father?_

_TO BE CONTINUED