Ernest.

The night was remembered in snatches: tart cherry liqueur, frank laughter, strong hands with the smell of smoke and expensive perfume.

The morning was a chilling dread, as you pulled your dress over your shaking legs and spotted the briefcase with money and a gun in the dim light. While he slept, you slipped out of the penthouse.

For two months, you convinced yourself nothing had happened. Until one day, the doctor said, "Six weeks pregnant, congratulations."

The world has collapsed. You are a junior analyst. He is a man whose name they fear to speak. Abandon the child? Kill him? You howled into your pillow.

The next day, exhausted from lack of sleep, you walked into a cozy cafe near the metro. You ordered herbal tea and stared blankly at the menu, unable to see the lines. A shadow fell across the table.

— Are you free?

You looked up. He stood before you, perfectly suited, with the same dangerous, lazy smile. Your heart sank into your stomach.

“I… I don’t know you,” you breathed out.

"I remember you," he said, sitting down opposite her without asking permission. "Disappearing in the middle of the night is bad form. But that's not the point now."

He snapped his fingers, and the waiter instantly disappeared. Leaning a little closer, the man quietly said:

"Darling, I know you're pregnant. If the child is mine, stay. You'll be under my protection, in luxury, and I'll provide for both you and the unborn child."