Chapter 8

❤️Sophie❤️

Sleep and I have officially parted ways. I spend the night staring at Sandy’s ceiling, counting every terrible decision that brought me to this moment.

Number one: Dating Sebastian.

Number two: drinking enough whiskey to drown my common sense.

Number three: sleeping with a stranger.

Number four: realizing one night can ruin me for nine months. Or maybe for the rest of my life.

Number five: posting an online ad looking for a fake husband.

I groan and bury my head in the pillow as every thought swirls through my mind. This is crazy. I can't believe my life has come to this after spending three years loving a single man.

Only to catch myself screwing someone old enough to be his mother, It’s pathetic. Well, I'm pathetic too because now, I'm about to enter financial ruin after offering two million dollars to a fake baby daddy.

What if my dad finds out he’s a fake baby daddy? No. He can't.

I'm not going to tell him, and neither is my soon-to-be baby daddy, so there’s no way he’ll find out.

Still… the thought of meeting an old man with a bald head tomorrow makes me wince.

I shake my head, he can't be bald, or old.

Sandy’s voice cuts through my thoughts, “Are you awake?”

“I’ve been awake.”

“What time is it?”

I glance at my phone, “Five twenty.”

A groan fills the room, “Our meeting is by ten.”

“I know.”

“So why are you awake?”

“I keep wondering if Shadow Twenty-Three is secretly eighty.”

Sandy throws a pillow directly at my face, “Fuck you.”

“Ouch, what was that for?”

“For being a pain in the ass. Go to sleep.”

“I can't.”

“What now?”

“What if he has three wives?”

Another pillow lands on my head before I can say anything, “What if he’s bald?”

Sandy slowly sits upright, “Sophie.”

“Yes.”

“You are pregnant.”

“I know.”

“You have forty-eight hours. You’re about to become homeless, so why are you worried about his hairline?”

“Because I have standards.”

She stares at me for a full five seconds, “I almost admire your stupidity.”

Three hours later, I stand in front of the wardrobe. Nothing fits. Actually, everything fits; I simply hate everything.

“This dress makes me look pregnant.”

“You are pregnant.”

I purse my lips, “I know, but I still can't show to the world.” I grab a purple dress and put it on, staring at myself in the mirror for several minutes before shaking my head, “I look fat.”

Sandy groans beside me, “You are pregnant.”

Ignoring her, I try another dress, “This one makes me look desperate. I look like I need a fake husband.”

She places both hands on her hips, “You need a fake husband.”

I glare at her, “You haven't been supportive today.”

“I’ve supported you since yesterday. At this point, I’m supporting reality.”

I can't help but roll my eyes, “Which is?”

She doesn’t respond. Sighing dramatically, I pull out a cream-colored dress, “What about this?”

She nods, “You look pretty.”

“Don’t I look like someone begging a stranger to marry me?”

“You look exactly like someone begging a stranger to marry her.”

I nod, “A new friend is needed, please.”

After what feels like forever, we finally leave the house and hail a taxi to the Blackstone Hotel. I try to stay as calm as possible, even though my pulse keeps hammering against my ribs.

Neither of us speaks; the silence alone is suffocating. The closer we get to the hotel, the faster my heart beats.

“You can still back out,” Sandy says quietly beside me.

I laugh, “And tell my father I couldn't get in touch with my mysterious new boyfriend?”

She doesn't answer, because we both know I can't. Not without risking being homeless and raising a kid on the street. The thought alone makes me shiver.

The taxi stops, and I look through the window. My mouth slowly drops open.

“Oh.”

The hotel is enormous, with glass walls reaching toward the sky, luxury cars lining the entrance.

Men in expensive suits walk confidently through the revolving doors while women in designer dresses glide across polished marble floors.

It doesn't look like a hotel; it looks like where rich people go to discuss buying countries. “This place has a smell.”

Sandy frowns, “What smell?”

“Money.”

A laugh rips from her throat, “You can smell money?”

“I can smell bankruptcy.” My bankruptcy, because if this marriage falls apart, my father will personally throw me into the street.

The driver clears his throat, “We are here.”

Neither of us moves.

“Sophie.”

I look at her, “Yes.”

“You have to get out.”

“I'm waiting for divine intervention.” Nothing happens. Not even a bird flies past. So, I'm really doing this.

I almost bury my face in my hands or tell the driver to take us back home, but then I remember I have no home until I present my baby daddy. I slowly climb out of the car.

Immediately, I regret wearing heels—the hotel floor is so shiny I can practically see my future. It’s terrible.

Sandy squeezes my arm, “I will wait outside.”

“What if he kidnaps me?”

“I will call the police.”

“What if they don't come?”

“I will be famous on TV.”

I stare at her for a full three seconds, “What?”

She shrugs, “Best friend of a missing pregnant woman.”

I snort despite myself, “You are awful.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

She hugs me tightly, “You will be okay.”

Will I? I don't believe it. Not even a little.

The moment I step inside, cold air kisses my skin. Everything sparkles—crystal chandeliers, fresh flowers, soft piano music. Even the employees look expensive.

My gaze roams the entire place as if I'm in a wonderland. My phone vibrates—a message from Shadow_23. Only two words.

*Table eighteen*

I swallow, “Okay.” I can do this. I follow the numbers and stop at the one labeled eighteen.

The table is empty. I look around—no mysterious twenty-three, no fake husband, no Shadow_23.

Did he stand me up? Is this some kind of joke?

I check my phone again. Nothing. Five minutes pass, then ten. My arms cross unconsciously, “Seriously? What does he think I am?” I may be desperate, but I do have standards.

Maybe I was right all along—maybe somewhere, someone is laughing at the stupid pregnant girl who thought she could hire a husband online.

Tears burn behind my lashes. No. I'm not going to cry. Not here. I inhale slowly; it’s fine. Since he decided to play jokes with me, I’ll just leave.

I turn toward the exit before I embarrass myself by crying, but suddenly, every conversation in the lobby falls silent.

The pianist stops playing, employees straighten instantly, managers rush toward the entrance. Security guards press fingers to their earpieces.

A convoy of black SUVs pulls up outside the glass doors.

Someone whispers behind me, “He’s here.”

Another voice follows, “Mr. Blackwood.”

My curiosity gets the better of me. I move closer just as the revolving doors start spinning. And for some strange reason, every bone in my body whispers the same question:

Who the fuck is this?

Before I can spiral further, my phone vibrates. Shadow_23.

*Don’t leave. I'm already here*