She lifted her head and looked at me. Those green eyes held something I didn't recognize—defiance, but more than that. That look you get when you're pushed to the edge, and suddenly nothing matters anymore.
"What?"
"The baby," she said, her mouth curving into something cold. "How do you know it's yours? I worked at the club. You think you were the only one? The night before could've been the bouncer. The night after could've been the bartender." She kept going, that smile getting colder. "Maybe I don't even remember who the father is. But I know—"
She paused. Her voice dropped.
"It's not you."
The air in the room crystallized.
I stared at her, and that fire in my chest burned hotter.
Not anger.
Something more primal. More violent.
I pulled a file from my desk drawer and threw it on the desk in front of her.
"Olivia Adrian," I said, leaning back. "Last six weeks. Four jobs. Convenience store cashier, three AM to seven AM. Coffee shop server, eight AM to two PM. Laundromat folder, four PM to nine PM. Cleaning crew on weekends. Four to five hours of sleep a night. Maybe half an hour stolen sleep on graveyard shifts at the convenience store."
Her smile froze.
"So tell me," I continued, keeping my voice level, "when exactly did you have time to find another man?"
I stood and walked around the desk until I was standing in front of her.
"So yeah," I looked down at her. "I know this baby is mine."
She didn't speak. Lips pressed tight, jaw locked, something burning behind those eyes. Rage and something else—that shame that comes with being exposed.
"You investigated me," she finally said, voice low.
"Yes."
"What gives you the right?"
"You got in my bed," I said. "I woke up with a stranger whose name I didn't know. Someone took a photo of us and sent it to Colonna. My engagement dinner was canceled. You want to know what gives me the right?"
She went still.
"What engagement dinner?"
"You don't know?" I searched her eyes for a crack, any sign she was lying. "Someone photographed us. Sent it to my fiancée. One month before the wedding. Perfect timing. Perfect angle. Perfect setup. You're telling me you don't know about that."
She looked at me, something moving in those green eyes. Shock first, then something complicated I couldn't name. Finally, a cold smile.
"So you think I set it up?"
"Didn't you?"
"Ha." She laughed, and that laugh made me uncomfortable. "You just told me I work four jobs a day, sleep four, five hours, I'm so broke I can't even afford prenatal vitamins—you really think I have money to hire someone to photograph you? You think I know people who can sneak cameras into that kind of club? You think I'm smart enough to plan some mafia family wedding scheme?"
She stood up, moved until we were face to face. Less than half a meter between us. I could smell cheap detergent on her skin, sweatunderneath. She'd been snatched off the street—didn't even have time to change.
"That night," she said, voice low, "I just wanted to help you. You were drugged. You needed help. So I'm an idiot with a savior complex, I stay, and then what?"
Her eyes were getting red, but she wouldn't let the tears fall.
