My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the pregnancy test onto the bathroom floor

The diner was slammed.

It was 2:15 PM on a Tuesday, and the greasy spoon atmosphere of Ruby’s Diner was thick with the scent of fried onions, burnt coffee, and old grease. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed a high-pitched, irritating tune that mirrored the pounding headache thumping behind Elizabeth’s temples.

“Table four wants another basket of fries, Em!” Ruby yelled from behind the laminate counter, wiping down a ketchup stain with a rag that had seen better decades.

“Coming!” Elizabeth called back, adjusting the stained white apron tied tightly around her waist.

She balanced two heavy ceramic plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes along her forearm, weaving expertly through the narrow aisle between vinyl booths. Her stomach gave a treacherous lurch, a wave of nausea rolling over her in a hot, suffocating flash. She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of a booth until her knuckles turned white, forcing the bile down her throat.

Get it together, Elizabeth, she scolded herself mentally. You’re a nursing student. You know how hormones work. Stop hyperventilating.

“You look pale, kid,” mumbled old man Henderson from booth three, chewing slowly on a pickle. “You working too many hours at that bookstore or whatever it is you do on the side?”

“Just didn't sleep well, Mr. Henderson,” she offered a tight, polite smile, sliding the plates onto the table with practiced precision. “Enjoy your lunch.”

She turned around, her mind racing back to the pregnancy test hidden in the bathroom vanity drawer miles away. Six weeks. That meant the conception date aligned precisely with that single night at the Obsidian Hotel. There was no ambiguity. No alternative timeline. The baby growing inside her—barely the size of a blueberry, yet already altering every cell in her body—belonged to Alessandro Vitali.

The bell above the diner door jingled cheerfully, signaling a new rush of afternoon customers. Elizabeth didn't look up immediately as she grabbed a stack of menus and hurried toward the front door.

“Welcome to Ruby’s, right this way—,” she started, looking up into the face of the customer.

Her words died instantly in her throat.

The blood drained from her face so fast she felt her knees buckle. The menu slipped from her fingers, clattering against the linoleum floor with a sharp plastic slap.

Standing in the doorway, blocking out the bright Chicago sunlight with his broad shoulders and commanding presence, was Alessandro Vitali.

He wasn't wearing his boardroom charcoal suit today. Instead, he wore a tailored black overcoat left open at the front, a fine charcoal turtleneck that emphasized his powerful chest, and dark trousers that screamed quiet, astronomical wealth. He looked entirely out of place amid the sticky vinyl booths, the greasy menus, and the neon sign humming in the window.

Yet, as his amber eyes locked onto hers across the room, the rest of the diner seemed to evaporate into thin air.

For a terrifying second, Elizabeth was convinced he had found her. She thought about the pregnancy test, the fake name, the hotel key card, and the invisible web connecting them. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

He knows, her panic shrieked. He found out who I really am. He knows about the baby.

Alessandro didn’t rush. He walked across the worn checkerboard floor with slow, predatory grace, his gaze never leaving her face. The other customers—mostly construction workers and local regulars—instinctively parted for him, sensing the raw, heavy aura of authority he carried.

He stopped right in front of her, just inches away. The scent of him—expensive sandalwood, dark leather, and crisp winter air—washed over her, instantly dragging her memory back to the sheets of Room 1520.

“Emma,” he said softly.

The false name felt like a brand on her tongue. She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the hostess podium to keep from collapsing.

“Mr. Vitali,” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “I... we’re closed for lunch service in ten minutes, but if you want a booth—”

“I don’t want lunch, Emma,” Alessandro interrupted, his low, resonant voice cutting through the clatter of silverware and diner chatter. His amber eyes narrowed slightly, studying her with an intense, microscopic focus that felt as though he was reading every rapid heartbeat beneath her skin. “I want to talk.”

“I’m working,” she said, her voice rising defensively as she tried to step around him. “As you can see, we’re short-staffed today, and Ruby—”

Before she could take another step, Alessandro’s hand shot out—not harshly, but with an immovable firmness—and caught her wrist. His fingers wrapped around her pulse point, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of her blood.

“Ruby won't mind,” Alessandro murmured, his gaze dropping to her hand before rising back to meet her terrified eyes. “I’ve already spoken with the owner. Your shift for today has been... covered.”