Chapter 3
Friday arrived with merciless speed. I stood outside Seawind Café fifteen minutes early, my stomach churning with both morning sickness and dread. The quaint seaside café with its blue-striped awning had always been a source of comfort, but today it felt like the backdrop for my execution.
Alexander Sterling III. Even his name sounded intimidating. I smoothed my simple floral dress—one of the few things that still fit comfortably—and checked my reflection in the window. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail. Not exactly how I'd planned to look when meeting the father of my child for the second time.
The first time hardly counted, given the darkness and my intoxicated state.
At precisely 2 PM, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The man who stepped out made my breath catch. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than three months of my rent. His dark hair was styled perfectly, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. This was Alexander Sterling in his element—controlled, powerful, and utterly intimidating.
His eyes found mine immediately, a flicker of recognition passing through them before his expression settled into careful neutrality. I raised my hand in an awkward half-wave, immediately regretting the childish gesture.
"Miss Miller," he said as he approached, his voice deep and formal.
"Just Katelyn is fine," I replied, my voice smaller than I intended. "Thank you for coming."
He nodded once, gesturing toward the café door. "Shall we?"
Inside, we were seated at a corner table away from windows—his preference, I noted. The waitress, Maggie, who'd known me since childhood, raised her eyebrows at the sight of my companion but mercifully said nothing beyond taking our orders: a cappuccino for me, a double espresso for him.
An excruciating silence fell between us as we waited for our drinks. I fidgeted with the paper napkin in my lap, folding and unfolding it until it was soft as cloth. Alexander—Alex?—sat perfectly still, his posture impeccable, eyes occasionally scanning the room as if assessing potential threats.
Our drinks arrived, providing a momentary distraction. I wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic mug, drawing strength from its solidity.
"So," he finally said, "you mentioned an urgent matter."
I took a deep breath. There was no gentle way to say this.
"I'm pregnant," I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. "And you're the father."
His reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked, sending his espresso cup crashing into his saucer. Dark liquid splashed across the pristine white tablecloth, some of it splattering onto his sleeve. For a moment, his composed facade cracked completely, revealing raw shock.
"That's... not possible," he said, his voice strained. "We used protection."
"Apparently it failed," I replied, my cheeks burning. "I've taken three tests. All positive."
He stared at me, his gray eyes searching mine for deception. Finding none, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a checkbook.
"I understand this is... inconvenient," he said, his pen poised. "I'm prepared to handle this discreetly. How much would you need to... resolve the situation?"
My blood turned to ice. "Excuse me?"
"For medical expenses," he clarified, already writing. "And compensation for your... distress."
I slapped my hand down on the checkbook, stopping him mid-signature. "I didn't come here for your money," I hissed, anger replacing my nervousness. "I came because I thought you deserved to know. That's it. I'm not asking for anything."
He looked genuinely confused, as if my reaction didn't compute. "Then what do you want?"
"Nothing," I said firmly, though my voice trembled. "I'm keeping this baby, with or without your involvement. I just thought... I just thought you should know."
Before he could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and something in his expression softened. "Excuse me, I need to take this," he said, rising from his chair.
He stepped a few paces away, but I could still hear his side of the conversation.
"Emma," he said, his voice warming in a way it hadn't with me. "Paris is treating you well, then?... That's wonderful news, a principal role..."
I sat there, invisible again, watching as his entire demeanor transformed while speaking to this woman. The contrast was stark—cold professionalism with me, genuine affection with her. The familiar feeling of being overlooked, of being the Post-it Girl, washed over me again.
When he returned to the table, his expression was apologetic but distracted.
"I'm sorry about that," he said mechanically.
But his mind was clearly elsewhere—in Paris, with Emma—while I sat across from him carrying his child.
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