Smoke stung my eyes before I even opened them. The hallway was a tunnel of flame, the ceiling groaning above me. I crawled, choking, until my arms gave out. That’s when I saw him—Jaxon Thorne, in his tailored coat, breaking down my door like it was cardboard. He scooped me up, his voice steady: ‘I’ve got you, Eva. Hold on.’

I woke up in a private suite, IV in my arm, a doctor avoiding my gaze. Then came the words: ‘Congratulations. You’re twelve weeks pregnant.’

Twelve weeks? I hadn’t been with anyone. Not in months. Not ever with him. Yet Jaxon walked in, knelt beside the bed, took my hand. ‘We’ll marry,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you face this alone.’

But his mother’s visit told a different story. Cold, elegant, she leaned in and whispered, ‘You think you’re special? You’re a mistake. And mistakes get erased.’

Now, a security guard texts: ‘They’re coming to take your records.’ I have three minutes. Run, delete the file, or call Jaxon and demand answers.