"Hello?" I call out louder this time.
Nothing.
I wrap the sheet around myself and pad out to the living room. It's empty, pristine, like no one was ever here.
He's gone.
I check the bathroom again, the closet, even look out on the balcony. Nothing. No note on the nightstand, no number scrawled on hotel stationery. No trace that he was ever here except for the lingering scent of his cologne and the delicious ache in my muscles.
The silence feels oppressive now, mocking. The beautiful suite that felt like a fairy tale last night now feels like a gilded cage. I sink onto the couch, trying to process what just happened.
I gave myself to a stranger—completely, utterly, in ways I've never given myself to anyone. And he left without a word.
The smart thing to do would be to get dressed, go home, and chalk this up to a learning experience. One night of incredible sex with a mysterious man who clearly isn't interested in anything more. It happens. I'm a grown woman. I can handle this.
3
HANNAH
Islide my phone across the table to Delilah.
“What?” Delilah asks and picks up the phone to look at the screen.
Her mouth drops open when she sees the picture of the pregnancy test I took this morning.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant.
The words keep bouncing around my skull, refusing to stick. This isn't possible. This doesn't happen to women like me. Except apparently it does, because here I am, sitting in my favorite coffee shop on a Tuesday afternoon, staring at proof that my one night of letting go has completely derailed my life.
A month. It's been a little over one month since I woke up alone in that penthouse suite. I've spent every day since trying to convince myself it was just a hookup. Great sex with amysterious stranger who knew how to make me forget my own name. No big deal. Happens all the time.
I looked up that word he called me. And with the help of Google translate, I now knew he called me bunny in Russian.
And dammit, I liked it.
I take a sip of my mint tea, hoping it will settle my stomach, but everything tastes wrong lately. Even coffee, my lifeblood, makes me nauseous. I should have known something was off when I started reaching for herbal tea instead of my usual double espresso.
The real Kevin had texted me a week after our supposed date, full of apologies about a family emergency that kept him from the bar. By then, I'd already figured out that my mystery man wasn't Kevin the accountant. The expensive suit, the penthouse, the way he carried himself like he owned everything he touched—none of that screamed CPA.
I was pissed that he tricked me.
Not really pissed because I knew damn well he wasn’t Kevin before I ever went to that stupid penthouse.
“What am I looking at?” Delilah asks.
She knows, but she needs to hear it.
And I need to say it.
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out.
The words hang in the air between us. Delilah blinks, her perfectly glossed lips forming a small 'o' of surprise.
"Oh my God." She sits back in her chair. "You're serious."
"Two pink lines don't lie."
