2 – Two Lines, One Mistake
1003 Words
Sienna's POV
I didn’t sleep that night.
Not because of guilt—because of how much I didn’t feel it.
I should’ve felt dirty. Ashamed. Hollow.
But I didn’t.
I felt... f****d.
Ruined in the kind of way I wasn’t sure I wanted fixed.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Mask off. Voice low. Fingers pressed deep between my thighs as he growled, “Beg for it.”
My thighs clenched under the sheets.
I shoved the memory down and buried myself in my pillow.
------------------------
The days passed in a blur of distraction. I told myself it was just s*x. A one-time mistake. I'd never see him again, and he’d never think of me.
Hell, he probably didn’t even remember it.
Men like Rafael D’Angelo f****d girls like me the same way they drank wine—full-bodied, rough, and forgotten.
But then I was late.
Three days. Then five.
And then I woke up on the sixth morning with my head in the toilet and my stomach emptying itself like it was trying to confess a sin I hadn’t admitted yet.
“You’ve looked pale all week,” Lily said, handing me a glass of water as I slumped across the futon in her dorm. “You sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“Flu, maybe,” I lied, wiping my mouth.
She stared at me.
My hand went instinctively to my stomach.
Shit.
-------------------------
An hour later, I stood in the back of a tiny drugstore, staring at a row of pink-and-white boxes with shaking hands.
Pregnancy tests.
I picked three. Just in case one tried to be funny.
Lily waited outside the bathroom door while I paced.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
I stared at the test in my hand.
One line.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Fuck.
Lily peeked in after I didn’t answer.
Her eyes dropped to the test. Then to the trash can—overflowing with wrappers.
Then to me.
I didn’t speak.
She crossed the room in three steps and pulled me into her arms.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “No matter what.”
And that’s when I cried. Not because I was scared.
But because I knew exactly who the father was.
And he wasn’t mine to claim.
----------------------
Later that night, I knocked on Luca’s door.
He opened it in his soft hoodie and pajama pants, holding a bowl of popcorn and looking like comfort personified.
“You okay?” he asked immediately.
I didn’t answer.
He pulled me in without another word and sat me on the couch.
Luca handed me a blanket, but when I sat on his couch, he didn’t go far.
He sat next to me—closer than usual. I could feel the warmth of his thigh through his jeans. He smelled like cedar and comfort, like familiarity with a heartbeat.
I handed him the test.
He stared at it for a beat too long.
Then, like always, Luca surprised me.
“Do you want to keep it?” he asked quietly.
I blinked. “What?”
He looked at me, eyes steady. No judgment. No flinch.
“Do you want the baby, Sienna?”
A lump formed in my throat. “I… I don’t know.”
He nodded once, gently.
“Then we figure it out together.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For not freaking out. For not judging me. For just… being here.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, eyes soft and unreadable.
“You could carry the Devil’s baby and I’d still make you tea.”
I let out a small laugh, but it cracked at the edges.
Luca reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering near my cheekbone. My breath caught.
“Si,” he murmured, using the nickname he hadn’t called me in years. “You don’t have to go through this alone. Let me help carry it.”
The way he said it, I didn’t know if he meant the secret… or the baby.
I leaned my head onto his shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close.
Warm. Solid. Safe.
But even wrapped in everything Luca was, my body still remembered the hands of a stranger who had ruined me against a wall.
We didn’t talk about the man. The one who left me bent over a wall with no name and a promise inside me.
But later that night, I opened my laptop and searched his name.
Rafael D’Angelo.
Every photo looked colder than the last. He didn’t smile. Not even next to his fiancée.
Her name was Alessia Marino.
She was beautiful, all elegance and poise.
But his eyes?
His eyes were haunted.
Even in still images, I could see it—the way he held tension in his jaw, the way his hand hovered on Alessia’s hip but never gripped it like he’d gripped mine.
He wasn’t in love.
He was trapped.
And maybe that’s why it hurt even more.
Because I was the one he let go without looking back.
------------------------
Two days later, I went back to work at the café.
Small talk. Lattes. Muffins. Smiles.
I hated all of it.
I was restocking napkins when the bell above the door rang—and something in me froze.
I turned.
And everything inside me stilled.
Him.
Rafael D’Angelo.
In my café.
No mask. No suit. No guards.
Just him. In all his power. Sharp jaw, crisp coat, dark eyes scanning the room like he owned it.
He did own it.
He saw me.
And the moment his eyes locked on mine, I saw the shift.
Recognition.
Then rage.
Then something hotter. Darker.
Possession.
He started walking toward me.
I dropped the stack of napkins.
He didn’t blink.
He reached the counter and leaned in, voice a low, lethal murmur:
“Found you.”
- Writer
