SIN SCENES

TWELVE O'CLOCK

"and liabilities," he whispered, his face dipping closer until his breath brushed my cheek. "Cashe is an asset that needs seasoning. You... you are a liability I am fully prepared to write off as a personal expense. I’ve always been very generous with my overhead."

"That is horribly unromantic, capitalism at its absolute worst, and a human rights violation," I breathed, my hand finding the front of his shirt, my fingers tangling in the crisp, high-thread-count fabric. "I absolutely love it."

"Good," Stan murmured, his lips a mere breath away from mine. "Because the introductory trial offer just expired."

He closed the distance, and whatever thoughts I had about corporate strategy, family loyalty, or the geographic distance between New York and London evaporated into pure, chaotic heat.Three weeks of juggling a long-distance boyfriend and his billionaire father will do absolute wonders for your cardiovascular health, mostly because your heart never drops below a hundred and twenty beats per minute.

I sat at my vanity table, balancing my phone against a bottle of seventy-dollar serum, staring at the pixelated image of Cashe. He was sitting in a bleak, grey boardroom in Mayfair, looking exhausted. The London weather was already doing terrible things to his spirits, but his curls still looked immaculate. Bless him.

"I just feel like the board is icing me out, babe," Cashe groaned through the speaker, rubbing his temples. "Every time I propose a new digital strategy, they look at me like I’ve suggested we liquidate the company assets and invest entirely in magic beans. I called my dad to ask for advice, but his assistant said he was in an 'extended off-site evaluation.'"

"Oh, he’s definitely evaluating something," I said smoothly, applying a fresh layer of under-eye concealer to hide the dark circles born from twenty-one consecutive days of absolute moral decay. "Don't let them get to you, Cashe. Old British money is like a glacier. It moves slowly, smells like damp wool, and eventually crushes everything in its path."

"I miss you so much," he sighed, leaning closer to his camera. "I’m looking at flights for next weekend. If I catch the red-eye on Friday, we can have a full forty-eight hours together."

"Oh, absolutely not," I blurted out, a fraction too quickly. I forced my face into an expression of deep, tragic concern. "Babe, you're trying to establish dominance in the European division. If you fly back to New York now, the board will smell blood in the water. They’ll think you’re homesick. You need to stay there. Suffer for your art. Or at least suffer for your inheritance."

"You're right," he muttered, deflating. "You're always so rational about my career. You're my rock, Onika."

"I’m more like a shifting tectonic plate, honestly, but I appreciate the sentiment," I murmured.

Behind me, the duvet ruffled.

My breath caught in my throat. I glanced toward the reflection in my vanity mirror. The sheets on my bed shifted, and Stan Ford slowly sat up, completely unbothered by the fact that his own son’s voice was currently echoing through my bedroom. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty. He just leaned back against my pillows, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face as he picked up his coffee mug.

He was entirely naked under my linen sheets, looking like a silver-fox Greek myth that had decided to take up corporate raiding.

Stan raised an eyebrow, silently daring me to slip up. He was enjoying this. The sheer, unadulterated sociopathy of the man was almost impressive. Most cheating partners worry about getting caught; Stan looked like he was about to unmute the phone and offer his son a performance review on his long-distance communication skills.

I glared at his reflection, mouthing the words, Be quiet or I will poison your coffee.

Stan just took a slow, deliberate sip, his dark eyes sparkling with dangerous amusement.

"What was that, little bird?" Cashe asked through the phone, his screen lagging slightly. "I thought I heard something."

"Just the heating system," I lied seamlessly, adjusting the camera angle so it was strictly locked onto my face. "My apartment building was built in the nineteen-twenties. The pipes sound like a dying radiator most mornings. Very atmospheric. If I ever get murdered here, the neighbors will just think it’s the plumbing."

"Right. Well, I have to run into this risk-assessment meeting," Cashe said, throwing a tragic look toward someone off-camera. "I love you. Call me tonight?"

"Love you too, babe. Break a leg. Or a compliance regulation."

I swiped the screen, ending the call, and let out a breath so ragged it felt like inhaling glass.

Before the phone could even touch the vanity table, a pair of heavy, warm arms wrapped around my waist from behind. Stan pulled me backward out of my chair and onto the edge of the mattress, his lips immediately finding the sensitive skin right beneath my ear.

"You’re a spectacular liar, Onika," Stan murmured, his deep baritone vibrating against my skin. "If your foundation ever goes under, I can easily find you a place in our public relations department. We pay very well for that level of creative storytelling."

"Get off me, you maniac," I said, though my hands were already finding his shoulders, my fingers gripping the hard muscle there. "Your son thinks I’m his rock. Do you know how heavy that metaphor is? I’m going to develop a stress fracture from the sheer weight of my own hypocrisy."

"Hypocrisy is just another word for market flexibility," Stan whispered, his mouth tracing a path up to my jawline. He shifted his weight, pinning me beneath him with an ease that reminded me exactly how powerless I was in this arrangement. "And right now, the market is highly volatile."

"You are going to hell," I breathed, my heart restarting its dangerous, chaotic rhythm.

"I own the real estate down there," Stan smiled, his dark eyes locking onto mine just before he closed the distance. "I'll make sure we get a room with a view."

~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Nothing screams "successful independent woman" quite like staring at a plastic stick in a bathroom that smells faintly of bleach and existential dread.

I sat on the edge of my porcelain throne, the late-morning sun cutting through my blinds like a judgmental laser. On the counter lay the verdict. Two distinct, unblinking pink lines.

"Perfect," I muttered to the empty room. "Absolutely flawless. My villain arc has officially upgraded from a corporate thriller to a daytime soap opera. All I need now is an evil twin and a convenient case of amnesia."

I picked up the stick, turning it over as if a different angle would magically delete one of the lines. It didn’t. The basic mathematics of my life had just become a terrifying algebraic equation where X equaled a sweet, unsuspecting British-Jamaican heir, and Y equaled a ruthless silver-fox billionaire who probably had a line item in his budget for silencing scandals.

And the absolute best part? I had absolutely no idea who the father was.

"Congratulations, Onika," I whispered, a breathless, hysterical laugh escaping my throat. "You’ve successfully complicated the Ford family tree. It’s no longer a tree; it’s a wreath."

The timing was immaculate. Cashe had been in London for exactly twenty-four days. Stan had been in my bed for exactly twenty-three of them. If it was Cashe’s, I was a tragic woman trapped by geographic distance, holding onto the last piece of our love. If it was Stan’s, I was carrying the sibling-child of my own boyfriend, a biological paradox that would likely cause the universe to implode from sheer awkwardness.

My phone buzzed on the sink counter, vibrating so violently it nearly knocked over my toothbrush. I flinched, my heart jumping into my throat.

It was a text from Stan.

The driver is outside. We're having lunch at Le Bernardin. One o'clock. Don't wear the ruby-red lipstick today. I want to actually taste the fish.

I looked at the text, then back at the pregnancy test. A sudden wave of intense, violent nausea hit me, and I barely made it to the toilet bowl in time. Dry-heaving at noon—the classic hallmark of a woman who is completely in control of her destiny.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the back of Stan’s town car, looking out at the chaotic New York traffic. I hadn't put on any lipstick. My lips were pale, matching the slight green tint of my complexion. I had wrapped myself in a loose, oversized cream sweater, suddenly feeling the intense urge to camouflage my midsection from the entire world.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Stan was already seated in a private booth near the back, looking entirely too powerful for a Tuesday afternoon. He was reading a financial report on his tablet, his tailored charcoal suit fitting his broad shoulders perfectly.

"You look pale, little bird," Stan said as I sat down, his dark eyes instantly scanning my face with that terrifying, diagnostic precision. He set the tablet aside. "And you actually listened to me about the lipstick. I’m shocked. Usually, you use that red paint as a defensive shield."

"I’m trying a new look," I said, my voice sounding a bit more strained than I intended. "It’s called the ghost of consequences past. I think it flatters my skin tone."

The waiter appeared, pouring sparkling water into our glasses. "Would the lady like to start with a cocktail? Or perhaps our select white wine?"

"Just water," I said quickly, almost aggressively. "And maybe a plate of plain bread. The blander, the better."

Stan’s eyebrows shifted. He waited until the waiter bowed and walked away before leaning across the table, his arms resting on the white tablecloth. The casual, wealthy elegance he exuded was suffocating.

"No alcohol? Plain bread?" Stan’s voice dropped into that low, dangerous baritone that usually made my spine tingle, but right now, it just made my stomach do a slow, agonizing loop. "Who are you and what have you done with my expensive, chaotic mistress?"

"She's currently experiencing a corporate restructuring," I said, forcing a dry, humorless smile. I took a sip of the water, trying to steady my hands. "Tell me, Stan... when you acquire a new company, and you find out there’s an unexpected, unbudgeted asset already developing in the pipeline... what’s your standard operating procedure?"

Stan stared at me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the ruthless CEO cracked, replaced by something sharp, perceptive, and entirely too smart.

"Depends on who put the asset there," Stan murmured, his gaze locking onto mine with absolute intensity.

Before I could formulate a witty, terrifying response, my phone began to chime in my purse. The ringtone was specific. It was the custom jazz riff I had set for Cashe.