Secret Baby for my CE0

I jolted up in bed. Who the f**k was knocking at my door. I glanced at the bedside table. 2:15am. Who knocks at someone’s door by 2am for god sake. I contemplated ignoring but the knocks became even more insistent. I sat in bed and listened, my mind running amok. Could it be the debt collectors? No, they said they’d give me 3 months to mourn my father's death properly. I was still thinking when the knocks stopped as abruptly as they started. Did the person really leave? I really hoped so. I picked up my phone and tiptoed to the kitchen to check if I’d see someone leaving. “s**t” I cursed. I left the plate I used to eat last night on the kitchen table and I totally forgot it was there. I accidentally knocked my elbow against it while making my way to the window and it fell to the floor making a whole lot of noise. If the person knocking was still out there, then surely they must have heard it. I looked out the window and saw no one leaving. Was the person still here then? At this point I was a bit scared. My house was built in a way that it overlooked the whole street. So I could see anyone coming or going from my house or any of my neighbors' houses from my kitchen window. I lived at the end of the street and most of my neighbors were orderlies. Nothing interesting ever happened around these parts. The most interesting thing we’d seen in months was when Mrs. Nock ran out of her house half naked because she thought she heard someone in her house. The “someone“ later turned out to be her blind dog. Not that I minded. I wanted to stay as far away from drama as possible. I had very few friends and my daughter who was currently at my granny’s. I finally mustered courage and walked to my front door with the blunt knife I’d picked from my kitchen. The knife could barely cut vegetables so it was going to be useless against danger if any. But still I took it because it made me feel somewhat comfortable. I opened my door halfway and the frame of a man fell through my door. I let out a little yelp and stepped aside as my little frame couldn’t hold the door. I held the knife high above my head and stood at a safe distance from him. Waiting for him to attack so I’d fight back. But he didn’t. Actually, he wasn’t moving. I was s**t scared at this point. I looked closer and saw the wide gash across his shoulder and his bruised face, at least the part I could see. “Oh sweet Jesus” I muttered under my breath and quickly rushed to his side with the knife still in hand. I knelt beside him and tried turning him over. My God, this was a hulk of a man. I paused in shock when I turned him over. “No way. No f*****g wayyyyyy” I screamed aloud. Lying on my kitchen floor was Norman Grey. THE Norman Grey of Grey & Carter Law Offices, one of the biggest law firms in NYC. And more importantly, the father of my child, Ava. Though, I doubt he knew that as it was a one night stand and we were both heavily drunk. I took a shaky breath, my eyes locked on his unconscious form. It had been years, but seeing him again brought back memories I had tried so hard to forget. That night. I didn't plan on going out but my friends convinced me. “Just one drink,” they said. One drink had turned into several and before I knew it, I was at the bar laughing at something he said. Back then, I didn’t know his real name. He introduced himself as Josh, a stockbroker with a small firm. Charming, confident and impossibly handsome, he drew me in with nothing more than a smirk and a slight touch. I remembered the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass as he watched me, his blue eyes looked like they held so many secrets. The way his voice lowered when he leaned in and murmured, “You keep looking at me like that and I might have to do something about it.” I played along, thanks to the alcohol and the way my body responded to him. “Maybe I want you to.” He did not hesitate. The moment we left the bar, his hands were on me, pinning me against the cool brick wall of the alley. His lips were rough, demanding, stealing my breath as he kissed me like his whole existence depended on it. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my ear, his voice thick with longing. I did not. I wanted him just as badly. The hotel room had been a blur of heat and tangled sheets. His hands, rough yet skilled, had explored every inch of me, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He worshipped my body with a hunger that made my head spin, his mouth and tongue teasing, tasting, claiming. And when he finally pushed inside me, slow and deep, I gasped, clutching onto him like he was the only thing keeping me sane. I could still hear the way he moaned against my neck, the way he whispered things that made my skin burn. He took me over and over again, each time more intense than the last, until we were both weak to our bones. And then morning came. The bed was cold, the sheets empty beside me. No note, no goodbye. Just the memory of his touch and the lingering scent of his cologne. I had been nothing more than a drunken mistake to him. And now here he was, bleeding on my kitchen floor. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself back to the present. He wasn’t Josh, the mysterious stockbroker who had left without a word. He was Norman Grey—ruthless, powerful and completely unaware of the daughter he had left behind. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Just then, he groaned and tried to move his side. He reeked of alcohol. “Hello sir, can you hear me?” No reply. I dragged him inside the house and closed the door. It was freezing outside. I should’ve called 911 but I didn’t. I actually couldn't. I’d moved from where I stayed before after the debt collectors came to inform me of my fathers debt. I knew they’d eventually find me but I needed time to think and make plans. So there’s no way I’m calling 911. I would treat him myself and send him on his way the next morning. No harm done. I rushed to my bathroom cabinet and took out my first aid kit. I rushed back to him and started cleaning his wounds. The gash on his shoulder was deeper than I thought it was. It needed to be stitched. Was my Red Cross training and the two years I spent in nursing school enough for me to stitch him up? I had always wanted to be a nurse. My mother was a nurse before her death. And no, I didn’t want to be a nurse because my mother was one. I wanted to be a nurse because my father was terminally ill and the nurses who attended to him were mostly nonchalant. I watched them attend to him as a child and they were always so nonchalant towards him. So I wanted to be a nurse so that I could take care of him better. Unfortunately, he died before my dreams could come to actualization and after his death, I had to withdraw from school because I couldn’t pay my tuition. I was in my sophomore year in college when he died. I gently tilted Norman’s head to the side, and examined the bruises on his face closely. I grabbed a clean cloth from the first-aid kit and dampened it with cool water. Starting from his forehead, I carefully cleaned his bruised face. As I cleaned, I inspected each bruise for any signs of broken skin or debris. Satisfied that his face was clean, I applied healing ointment to the bruises and moved on to the gash on his shoulder. The wound was deeper than I had initially thought, and it was still oozing blood. I had to act quickly to prevent it getting infected. I grabbed a pair of sterile gloves and put them on. With the gloves in place, I carefully began to clean the wound using saline solution. The gash was jagged and rough, and I could see the edges of torn skin. I took a deep breath, trying to focus on the task at hand. After cleaning, I started to stitch him up. I had learned the basics of suturing in nursing school, but I had never actually done it on my own before. Starting at one end of the gash, I inserted the needle into the skin and brought it back out about a quarter inch away. I pulled the thread tight, trying to close the edges of the wound as much as possible. I repeated this process, moving along the length of the gash and making small, not so even stitches. I was relieved to see that the edges of the wound were beginning to close. After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the end of the gash. I tied off the thread with a secure knot and leaned back to examine my handwork. The stitches were a bit uneven, but the wound was closed, and that's all that mattered. I applied ointment to the stitch and placed a bandage over it before securing it in place with medical tape. It looked good to me. Maybe not perfect but it would have to suffice till he could get proper medical attention. I carefully dragged him to the living room, trying not to jostle his injured shoulder and gently laid him down on the rug. I then hurried to my room to grab some extra blankets to keep him comfortable. As I covered Norman with the blankets, I couldn't help but think about the irony of the situation. The man who had unknowingly fathered my child was now lying injured in my living room. I had often wondered what I would say to him if we ever meet again, but I never thought it would be under such circumstances.