I watch Daria across the room as she helps Jeremy with his homework, her brow furrowed in concentration. The soft scent of her vanilla perfume mixes with the faint, sweet undertones of her Omega pheromones - a combination that never fails to affect me. Leo is sprawled on the couch, absorbed in a video game, completely oblivious to the tension between us.

The past few weeks have been strange. Daria has seemed distant, tired. She's been eating constantly but complaining of nausea in the mornings. I've tried to ask her about it, but she brushes me off every time.

Now she's standing in front of me in the kitchen, her hands trembling as she holds something out. The morning sunlight streams through the windows, catching on the small white stick in her fingers. Two distinct pink lines are clearly visible.

"I'm pregnant," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the sound of the coffee machine behind me. Her eyes are wide with panic, her lower lip trembling.

I can't help it - a laugh escapes before I can stop it. The situation seems so absurd - the billionaire's son knocking up the nanny - like something from a bad movie.

Daria's expression hardens instantly. "This isn't funny!" she snaps, her voice rising. "And how are we supposed to explain this to our families, huh!?"