SIN SCENES

SCREWED!!!

The ringtone echoed from the depths of my purse like a cheerful, syncopated death knell. Miles Davis’s trumpet blared out a smooth melody that usually filled me with warm anticipation, but in the sterile, high-stakes atmosphere of Le Bernardin, it sounded like a fire alarm in a morgue.

Stan didn’t move. His gaze remained anchored to mine, heavy and unreadable, though his eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to my leather handbag.

"Are you going to answer that?" Stan asked, his voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He simply sat there, a corporate predator watching a rabbit decide which way to bolt.

"It’s just... work," I lied, my fingers trembling as they brushed past the plastic pregnancy stick wrapped in tissue paper before closing around my phone. The screen illuminated the name Cashe alongside a picture of him laughing on a beach in Ibiza, his dark curls wild and his smile radiating effortless warmth.

"Work," Stan repeated, a faint, humorless twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't realize Miles Davis had joined your marketing department. You usually reserve that track for my son."

The reminder hit me like a physical blow to the sternum. Son. Right. If the tiny human currently hijacking my hormones belonged to the man sitting across from me, it would be Cashe’s half-sibling. If it belonged to Cashe, it would be Stan’s grandchild. My family reunions were about to look like a Venn diagram drawn by a schizophrenic.

"He’s calling from London," I said, pressing the silence button. "Nothing that can’t wait until after lunch."

"Fascinating," Stan murmured, crossing his legs. "Because according to the brief I received this morning, Cashe has spent the last three days drowning his sorrows in vintage scotch because someone has been ignoring his texts."

My stomach did another violent flip. I pressed my hand flat against my abdomen underneath my oversized cream sweater, praying to whatever deity presided over reckless corporate mistresses that I wouldn't throw up on Stan’s bespoke shoes.

"Let's return to your corporate metaphor, Onika," Stan leaned forward, his platinum watch gleaming. "You asked me what my standard operating procedure is when I discover an unexpected, unbudgeted asset developing in the pipeline. When an asset appears without my explicit authorization, my first instinct is to audit the operation. So, tell me, little bird... who authorized this new project?"

The waiter chose that exact moment to reappear with a basket of warm bread. "Our fresh sourdough, mademoiselle," he said smoothly.

"Thank you," I choked out, immediately grabbing a piece. I stuffed it into my mouth, using the act of chewing as a biological shield.

Stan watched me eat with quiet, calculating fascination. He signaled the waiter away with a brief flick of his fingers.

"You're terrified," Stan observed softly. "Your heart is beating so hard I can see it pulsing against your sweater. You aren't restructuring a department, Onika. You're pregnant."

The word hung in the air between us, heavy and undeniable. I froze, a half-chewed piece of sourdough stuck in my cheek. "Stan, I don't think this is the place—"

"How far along are you?" he interrupted, his corporate persona completely replaced by something much older and fiercely possessive.

"I don't know," I whispered. "I found out twenty minutes ago. In my bathroom. Right before your driver pulled up."

Stan’s eyes narrowed as he calculated the logistics. He knew exactly when Cashe had boarded the private jet for London. He knew exactly how many nights he had spent in my apartment since then.

"Twenty-four days," Stan murmured. "He left on the third. I arrived at your place on the fourth... If the timeline is that close, then you don't know. Do you?"

I opened my eyes, looking at him with absolute vulnerability. "No," I admitted, a single tear escaping. "I don't know."

Instead of the explosive fury I expected, a strange, dark satisfaction settled over Stan's features.

"A biological paradox," Stan murmured. "My son’s fiancé, carrying a child that could either be his brother or his son. It’s almost poetic in its cruelty."

"It's a nightmare, Stan!" I hissed. "If Cashe finds out about this—about us, about the baby—it will destroy him!"

"Then we make sure he doesn't find out," Stan said calmly. "Not until we have certainty."

"And how do we get certainty without him knowing?"

"I already have Cashe’s medical records and DNA profiles on file at the family foundation," Stan said smoothly, without a single hint of shame. "We will find a private clinic. A non-invasive prenatal paternity test can be done as early as seven weeks using a simple blood draw from you. No one will ever know."

"And if it's Cashe's?" I whispered.

"Then you marry him. You play the part of the devoted wife, and you spend the rest of your life pretending those twenty-three nights never happened."

"And if it's yours?"

Stan’s grip on my wrist tightened, the heat of his skin searing into mine. "If it's mine, then you belong to me. Completely. The engagement to Cashe ends. And I will burn the Ford family tree to the ground before I let another man raise my child."

Before I could absorb the terrifying weight of his words, my phone began to chime again. The same jazz riff.

"Answer it, Onika," Stan commanded softly, picking up his sparkling water. "Let’s see how well you can lie to the man you think you love."

My hands shook as I pulled out the phone and swiped the screen. "Cashe," I said, forcing my voice to smooth out. "Hey, babe. I’m so sorry I missed your first call."

"Onika!" Cashe’s voice boomed through the line, British, bright, and laced with relief. "Bloody hell, darling, you haven't answered my texts in two days."

"I know, I’m sorry," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the white tablecloth. "Things have been absolutely insane at the office. Your dad has been pushing a very aggressive timeline."

Across the table, Stan picked up a piece of brioche and casually began to butter it, his movements slow and entirely performative. He was enjoying the psychological warfare.

"I have some news," Cashe said, his voice dropping into a softer, more excited cadence. "The meetings wrapped up early. I’m boarding the corporate jet in two hours, Onika. I’ll be back in New York tonight."

My heart stopped. "Tonight?" I choked out.

Stan’s hand froze mid-butter. His dark eyes snapped up, locking onto mine with rigid tension.

"Tonight, darling!" Cashe said. "I’ll be landing at JFK around nine. I’ve already told the driver to bring me straight to your apartment. We can order that overpriced Thai food you love. What do you think?"

I stared at Stan. Stan stared at me. The timeline had just compressed from weeks into hours. Cashe was coming to my apartment—the same apartment that still smelled faintly of Stan’s expensive sandalwood cologne.

"Onika?" Cashe asked, suddenly worried. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," I managed to say, looking at Stan, silently begging him to use his billionaire powers to delay the jet.

Stan slowly set the butter knife down and signaled the waiter for the check. The game had officially changed. "That's... amazing news, Cashe. I can't wait to see you tonight."

"Brilliant! Love you, darling."

"Love you too," I whispered, hanging up.

I dropped the device onto the table, my hands shaking. "Nine o'clock," Stan said, his voice clipped and precise as he pulled out his private phone. "That gives us exactly eight hours. We have to clear your apartment."

"Clear my apartment? Stan, your clothes are in my closet. Your spare toothbrush is in my holder!"

"My security team will be there in thirty minutes," he said coldly. "They will remove every trace of my existence. By the time my son steps through that door, your home will look like a convent."

"And what about me?" I asked, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. "Right now, I am a walking, talking biohazard of Ford family drama."

"You are going to go home, take a shower, and play the role of the ecstatic fiancé," Stan said, dropping a black card onto the bill folder. "Tomorrow morning at eight, a private medical vehicle will be waiting around the corner. You will give your blood, and we will get our answers. Now, get in the car. The countdown has begun."

I stood up, my legs feeling like lead weights. As I turned to leave the restaurant, I couldn't help but think that my villain arc had just become a full-blown psychological thriller, and I was running out of time before the credits rolled.

The clock is ticking down to 9:00 PM!