Accidentally Pregnant With The CEO's Baby

Two Pink Lines The bathroom light was too bright. Amelia Carter stared at the stick in her shaking hands. Two pink lines. Her heart stopped. Then it started racing like it wanted to break out of her chest. "No... no, no, no," she whispered. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when her dad’s hospital bills were already $40,000 and the collection agency called every day. Not when she was 22 and barely making rent as a waitress. Three weeks ago. One night. One stupid, desperate mistake at her best friend’s charity gala. She hadn’t even known his name. He was tall. Cold eyes. Black suit that cost more than her car. He’d bought her one drink, then another. And when the rain started, he’d offered her his car to get home. She remembered his hands. His scent. The way he said, “Don’t tell me your name.” Like it would ruin something. She remembered waking up alone in a hotel suite she could never afford. And now this. A baby. Amelia sank to the floor, the test still clutched in her hand. Tears blurred her vision. How was she supposed to raise a child? How was she supposed to tell her dad? Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She almost ignored it. But something made her answer. “Miss Carter?” A deep, cold voice. Professional. “This is Damian Blackwood’s office. Mr. Blackwood would like to see you. Today. 3PM. His penthouse.” Amelia frowned. “Who?” A pause. “The man you spent the night with three weeks ago at the Blackwood Charity Gala.” Her blood ran cold. “I don’t—” “We have the hotel records, Miss Carter. And the security footage. Mr. Blackwood knows.” Knows what? That she was pregnant? That it was his? “Why does he want to see me?” Her voice came out small. “To discuss a contract.” The assistant’s tone was flat. “Be there, or we will find you.” The call ended. Amelia looked down at the test in her hand. Two pink lines. A contract. What kind of contract did a billionaire make with a pregnant waitress? She had no choice. She had to go. 3PM. His penthouse. Her life was about to change forever. Amelia didn’t move for a full five minutes after the call ended. The bathroom tile was cold against her knees. The pregnancy test sat on the sink like an accusation. Two pink lines. Positive. Her mind kept looping the same three words: Damian Blackwood’s office. Damian Blackwood. She’d heard that name before. Everyone in Port Harcourt had. He was 29, CEO of Blackwood Global, and apparently worth twelve billion dollars. His face was on business magazines in the grocery store. Cold eyes. Sharp jaw. A man who bought buildings the way other people bought coffee. And she’d slept with him. The memory hit her in pieces. The charity gala. She’d been working it as waitstaff because the tips were good and her dad needed medication. He’d been standing alone by the bar, looking bored and furious at the same time. She’d spilled champagne on his cuff. He’d looked at her like she was a problem he wanted to solve. “Come with me,” he’d said. Not asked. She should’ve said no. But rent was due. Her dad’s chemo was due. And for one night, she’d wanted to pretend she wasn’t drowning. The hotel had been all marble and gold. She remembered the rain on the windows. She remembered his voice in the dark. Low. Controlled. “Don’t tell me your name.” She’d obeyed. Now he knew anyway. Her phone buzzed again. A text from the same unknown number. [Driver will be at your apartment at 2:30PM. Address: 14B River Crest Apartments. Do not be late.] They knew where she lived. Of course they did. Amelia stood up on shaky legs. She needed to think. Needed to breathe. But her apartment was tiny and the walls felt like they were closing in. She grabbed her purse and the pregnancy test. She couldn’t leave it here. Couldn’t throw it away. Some stupid part of her needed proof that this was real. The bus ride to the hospital took 40 minutes. She sat by the window and watched the city blur past. Her dad was sleeping when she got there. Chemo had taken most of his hair and all of his energy, but he still smiled when he saw her. “Baby girl,” he said weakly. “You look pale.” “I’m fine, Dad,” she lied. She sat beside him and held his hand. His skin was paper-thin. “The doctor said the new treatment is working.” “It is,” he said. “Because of you. You’re working so hard.” Guilt twisted in her stomach. How could she tell him? Dad, I’m pregnant. And the father is a billionaire who wants a contract. She stayed until the nurse came to check his vitals. Then she checked the time. 2:10PM. She had to go. The black SUV was already waiting outside her apartment building when she got back. The driver didn’t speak. He just opened the door for her. The ride to the Blackwood penthouse took 20 minutes. The building was glass and steel, right on the waterfront. She’d walked past it a hundred times and never imagined stepping inside. The elevator went straight to the top floor. No buttons. No stops. The doors opened into a living room bigger than her entire apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the whole city. Dark furniture. Cold. Expensive. And standing by the window, with his back to her, was Damian Blackwood. He turned when he heard her. Just like she remembered. Tall. Black suit. White shirt open at the collar. Hair perfectly neat. And those eyes — gray, like a storm. They swept over her once, from her worn shoes to her face, and she felt completely naked. “Miss Carter,” he said. His voice was exactly the same. Deep. No warmth. “Thank you for coming.” “I didn’t have a choice,” she said before she could stop herself. His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. “No. You didn’t.” He gestured to a chair across from a glass coffee table. On it was a thick folder. And a pen. “Sit.” She did. Her hands were shaking. She hid them in her lap. Damian sat across from her. He didn’t lean back. He didn’t relax. He looked like a man about to sign a merger. “I’ll be direct,” he said. “Three weeks ago, we spent the night together. The hotel’s security confirmed it. My... assistant also confirmed that you are now pregnant.” Amelia’s face burned. “How do you—” “I have resources, Miss Carter. I know you’re 8 weeks along. I know your father is in St. Mary’s Hospital, Ward 4. I know you owe $40,000.” Her stomach dropped. “You had me investigated?” “I had to.” He opened the folder and slid a paper toward her. “This is a contract.” Amelia stared at it. The words blurred. Marriage Agreement. Confidentiality Clause. Compensation. “A contract for what?” she whispered. “For the baby.” Damian leaned forward, forearms on his knees. For the first time, he looked at her like she was a person, not a problem. “I need an heir, Miss Carter. My board is pressuring me. My father is dying and his last wish is to see a grandchild. I do not want a relationship. I do not want complications. I want a clean, legal arrangement.” “You want me to... what? Be a surrogate?” “No.” His eyes flicked down to her stomach, then back up. “I want you to marry me. For one year. You carry the baby. You give birth. The child stays with me. You get $5 million and full medical care for your father.” The room went silent except for the sound of traffic 50 floors below. “Marry you,” Amelia repeated. “For money.” “For security,” he corrected. “For your father. For the child.” Amelia laughed, but it came out broken. “You can’t just buy a wife.” “I’m not buying a wife. I’m buying discretion. I’m buying time.” He tapped the contract. “You sign this, you move into the penthouse, you have access to the best doctors. You never have to worry about money again. You walk away after one year with $5 million and no obligations.” “And if I say no?” Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Then I will still fight for custody of my child. And you will still owe $40,000. And your father’s treatment will stop.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. Amelia looked down at her hands. At the faint calluses from waitressing. At the cheap ring she wore because her mom had given it to her before she died. She thought of her dad in that hospital bed. She thought of the eviction notice on her door. She thought of a tiny heartbeat she hadn’t even heard yet. “I need time to think,” she said. “You have until tomorrow morning,” Damian said. “The driver will bring you back. If you agree, sign the contract and bring it with you.” He stood. The meeting was over. Amelia stood too, legs unsteady. “Why me?” The question slipped out. “There are a thousand women who would say yes.” Damian studied her for a long moment. “Because you didn’t ask for anything that night. Because you left. Because you’re not like them.” He walked her to the elevator himself. Before the doors closed, he said one more thing. “I’m not a cruel man, Miss Carter. But I am a practical one. Think about your father.” The doors shut. Amelia didn’t cry on the ride home. She didn’t cry until she was back in her bathroom, staring at those two pink lines again. $5 million. Medical care. A roof over her head. And a marriage to a man who looked at her like she was a business deal. She picked up the pen. Tomorrow morning, she had to decide. But deep down, she already knew she didn’t have a choice. *END of Chapter 1 -- Now Will Amelia Sign the Contract?*