Sunlight sliced through the half-drawn blinds of Fiona's Lunara Cove apartment like golden knives. She woke face-down on her bed, still in last night's emerald dress crumpled, twisted around her thighs, the zipper half-undone. Her mouth tasted like regret and vodka; her body ached in places that reminded her exactly how reckless she'd been.
She rolled over slowly, wincing as the room tilted. The clock on her nightstand blinked 10:47 a.m. Sunday. No work today. No Marcus today. Just her, the empty ring finger, and the faint, delicious soreness between her legs that made her cheeks flush even now.
God. That man.
Dark hair falling into storm-gray eyes. Hands that knew exactly where to touch, how hard, how slow. The way he'd growled her name no, wait, they hadn't exchanged names. Not once. Just bodies, heat, mirrors reflecting every filthy, perfect angle.
She pressed her thighs together at the memory, a low throb answering instantly. One night. One glorious, no-strings, revenge-fuck of a night. And it had felt… freeing. Like she'd reclaimed something Marcus had stolen without her even noticing.
Fiona dragged herself upright, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee she hadn't made and the sea breeze sneaking through the cracked window. She padded to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and froze.
Her reflection looked wrecked in the best way: lips swollen from rough kisses, faint red marks on her neck where his teeth had grazed, hair a wild tangle. Between her breasts, a small bruise bloomed his thumbprint, probably, from when he'd pinned her against the chaise and taken her so deep she'd seen stars.
She touched it lightly. A shiver ran through her.
"Get it together, Flare," she muttered to the mirror. "It was sex. Amazing sex. Done."
She stripped off the dress, letting it fall in a silk puddle, and stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded over her skin, soothing the aches but not the memories. As she lathered soap across her breasts, her nipples peaked at the lightest touch still hypersensitive from his mouth. Lower, between her thighs, she was tender, slick even now at the thought of him thrusting into her again and again, whispering filthy praise against her ear.
"You feel so fucking good… come for me again, beautiful…"
She bit her lip, fingers lingering a second too long before she forced herself to rinse and step out.
Wrapped in a towel, she made coffee strong, black and sat on the tiny balcony overlooking the cove. The water sparkled under the late-morning sun, boats bobbing lazily. Normal life. Her life. Without Marcus. Without that stranger whose name she didn't know but whose touch she could still feel everywhere.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Lena Sparks best friend, hairstylist extraordinaire, and the only person who'd texted her good luck for the engagement party last night.
**Lena:** Babe. Radio silence since 9 p.m. You alive or did Marcus finally propose with fireworks and you're too busy banging on a yacht?
Fiona snorted, thumbs flying.
**Fiona:** Alive. Party was a disaster. He dumped me for Clara. I'm single. Officially.
Three dots danced. Then:
**Lena:** WHAT. I'm coming over. Bringing wine. And ice cream. And a voodoo doll with his face.
**Fiona:** Wine sounds dangerous right now. Head still pounding.
**Lena**: Then coffee and truth serum. Be there in 30.
Fiona set the phone down and sipped her mug, staring at the horizon. The headache was fading, but something else lingered a low, rolling nausea that crept up her throat like a warning. She swallowed hard, chalking it up to hangover + heartbreak combo.
She stood, intending to change into something that didn't scream "walk of shame," when the wave hit harder. Sudden, violent. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was on her knees, retching into the toilet.
When it passed, she sat back against the cool tile, breathing shallow. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
"Shit," she whispered.
She hadn't eaten much yesterday. Stress. Champagne. Vodka. It could be anything.
But a small, terrified voice in the back of her mind whispered something else.
She hadn't taken her pill yesterday morning too busy prepping for the party that never happened. And last night… no condom. She remembered the heat of him spilling inside her, the way they'd both been too lost to care.
Her hand drifted to her stomach, flat for now, but suddenly foreign.
"No," she said aloud, voice cracking. "No way. Not possible. Not now."
But the nausea rolled again, gentler this time, like a promise.
She pulled her knees to her chest, towel slipping off one shoulder, and stared at the wall.
One reckless night.
One stupid, beautiful, earth-shattering night.
And maybe just maybe the beginning of something she wasn't ready to face.
The phone buzzed again. Lena.
**Lena**: ETA 10 min. You better have tea ready because I'm about to go full best-friend interrogation mode.
Fiona closed her eyes.
She wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.
But deep down, she already knew.
The secret bump was already starting to form.
And the man who'd put it there? He was probably waking up alone in a luxury suite right now, wondering who the hell the woman was who'd burned through his night and vanished before sunrise.
He had no idea his world was about to tilt just as hard ....