LILITH AND THE BIKER

Lilith POV People always say a single mistake can alter the course of your life. They’re wrong. A mistake doesn’t ruin you. It’s the decision you make in the aftermath that burns everything to the ground. I hated pharmacies. I hated the sharp, medicinal stench that clung to the air, the harsh glare of white fluorescent lights, and the practiced, hollow smiles of cashiers asking if you were finding everything all right. Neither of us wanted an honest answer to that question. Unfortunately, I needed something only a pharmacy could provide. I reached for the smallest box on the bottom shelf, my thumbnail catching on the plastic wrap. *Pregnant?* *Me?* The concept was almost laughable. I was simply overworked. Underslept. Stress had a bitter way of hijacking a woman’s biology, and that was all this was. A false alarm. An expensive, inconvenient false alarm. I placed the box on the counter. The girl behind the register couldn't have been older than nineteen. She scanned it without a second glance. "Anything else?" "No." "That’s gonna be £14.50." I tapped my card against the reader. A sharp chime echoed. *Approved.* "Receipt?" "No, thank you." I shoved the small paper bag deep into my handbag, turned on my heel, and walked out into the London chill. The afternoon air was supposed to clear my head; instead, it felt heavy, damp, and suffocating. I checked my watch: 3:17 p.m. An hour to kill. Enough time to prove my own paranoia wrong. Across the street, a small espresso bar offered a sanctuary. I bought a bottle of still water I didn't want just to secure the key code for the restroom. The barista offered a polite, tired smile. I returned it seamlessly. It was terrifying how effortless the mask was to slip on. The bathroom smelled faintly of bleach and artificial lavender. I locked the heavy deadbolt, tossed my bag onto the counter, and stared at my reflection. "You're being ridiculous, Lilith," I muttered to the quiet room. I tore open the box, unfurled the tiny instruction pamphlet, and skimmed it twice. My hands were trembling, but I blamed the hyper-active air conditioning blowing directly above my head. It was easier to blame the cold. *Five minutes.* People always talk about how fast time flies, but in that claustrophobic space, time didn't fly. It congealed. I set the white plastic strip on the porcelain sink and turned my back to it. *One line,* I pleaded silently. *Just give me one line.* I counted the subway-style tiles on the far wall. Thirty-six. I counted them again. Thirty-six. I read the tiny print on the back of the liquid soap dispenser, memorizing chemical compounds I had no interest in understanding. Anything to avoid looking at the counter. When my phone vibrated with the five-minute timer, the sound hit like a gunshot. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a slow, steadying breath. "See?" I whispered into the quiet. "Overthinking." I reached out, picked up the strip, and opened my eyes. The air evaporated from my lungs. Two distinct, unforgiving pink lines. My mind simply stalled, refusing to process the visual input. I blinked hard, hoping the ghost line would dissolve into the plastic. It didn't. *Positive.* A dry, breathless laugh escaped my throat—not because it was funny, but because the body sometimes panics before the mind catches up. "No..." The word was barely a exhale. "No, this is wrong." My knees buckled. I caught the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning translucent white against the porcelain. I’d been careful. I was *always* careful. Methodical, calculated, precise. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to reconstruct the blurred memory from three months ago. Every choice. Every touch. Every lapse in judgment. Had I missed something? A sharp knock rattled the wooden door frame. "Miss? Everything okay in there?" My heart slammed against my ribs like a caged bird. "Yes," I called back, my voice shockingly level—a lifetime of practiced composure pulling through. "Out in a second." I shoved the test deep into the bottom of my bag, splashed ice-cold water over my face, and blotted my skin dry with a paper towel. The woman looking back at me in the glass hadn't changed. Same dark, guarded eyes. Same immaculate dark hair pinned tightly at the nape of her neck. Same unreadable expression. Outside, no one would know. No one could tell. I unlocked the door and stepped out into the main shop. The heavy, roasted aroma of coffee beans hit me instantly, and my stomach flipped so violently I had to pause, pressing a hand to my ribs. I forced my feet forward, pushing through the front door and onto the crowded pavement. A dreary drizzle had begun to fall, slicking the asphalt. I welcomed the cold rain; maybe it would disguise how pale I’d become. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. **Unknown Number.** I stared at the glowing screen. A cold drop of sweat joined the rain down my spine. I hit decline. A second later, a text popped up. > *Did everything go according to plan?* The blood drained from my face entirely. My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling as I typed back: *Wrong number.* I deleted the message instantly, but before I could lock the device, another notification flashed. > *Don't forget why you chose him.* *Him.* My grip on the phone tightened until the glass groaned. I lifted my head, my eyes sweeping the crowded sidewalk. A man walking a golden retriever. Two teenagers huddled under a bright red umbrella. An elderly woman flagging down a black cab. Everyone looked ordinary. Anyone could be watching. Or worse—someone miles away was orchestrating this. I powered the phone completely off, the screen fading to black. "No," I whispered to the rain. "I need to think." I took a single step forward, intending to lose myself in the crowd, when every screen in the display window of the electronics store across the street suddenly shifted in unison. The glowing blue displays snapped to a stark, flashing red banner: **BREAKING NEWS.** Instinct pulled my gaze toward the glass. On the screens, high-definition cameras cut to a sleek black Maybach pulling up to the valet entrance of the Grand Regency. Flashbulbs detonated like localized lightning as a doorman pulled open the rear passenger door. A man stepped out. Broad shoulders cut into a bespoke charcoal suit. Dark hair neatly styled. Sharp, immaculate jawline, and eyes as cool and unreadable as winter frost. The world tilted on its axis. On screen, a glamorous reporter beamed into her microphone. *“...Corvinus Medical Group has officially confirmed the engagement of its sole heir, world-renowned trauma surgeon Dr. Sean Corvinus, to heiress and business executive Isabella Laurent...”* *Sean.* *Corvinus.* The stranger whose last name I had deliberately never asked. The man I had promised never to see again. The man whose child was currently growing inside me. The small paper bag slipped from my numb fingers, dropping silently into a muddy puddle at my feet. On screen, Sean offered the press a polite, calculated smile. The smile of a man with an untouchable future, an elite lineage, and a perfect fiancée. He didn't know I existed. He didn't know my name. And as the rain began to pour in earnest, soaking through my coat, I realized I had no idea who I had actually let into my bed three months ago. I stared at his face on the glass, the rain washing down between us, and voiced the only question left. "What have I done?"