Pregnant by the Playboy Heir

Charlotte’s POV

“You’re late again.”

My manager didn’t even bother looking up. He just kept polishing glasses, pretending I hadn’t sprinted through icy rain to get here. My shoes squeaked, my hoodie dripped water, and all I got was attitude.

“I know,” I mumbled, yanking my soaked hoodie tighter. “The bus broke down.”

He snorted without missing a beat. “Funny how buses only break down for poor people.”

I swallowed the comeback clawing its way up my throat. Rent’s due in four days. Mom’s nursing home called—again—about unpaid bills. Bruce still can’t land a job. I don’t need to be right tonight. I need this shift.

So I forced a smile and ducked behind the counter.

Monarch Lounge looked exactly the same as always — fancy bottles stacked high, golden lights that make everything feel a little fake, men laughing too loud about nothing, women half-smiling, half-bored. The whole place smells like whiskey, expensive perfume, and secrets no one wants.

Most nights, I can survive it.

Tonight just felt off.

“VIP guests are here.” My manager dropped his voice low. “Don’t start your attitude.”

“I don’t have an—”

He cut me off. “You absolutely do.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a tray.

At that exact moment, the front doors swung open.

The energy in the room changed on a dime. Not loud or obvious, just enough to ripple through the air. A couple of suits sat up straighter. Some girls by the mirror adjusted their lipstick. Even the usually bored security guy at the door shifted, suddenly alert.

I looked up.

And that’s when I saw him.

Tall, black coat dusted off, jaw sharp enough to cut someone. That kind of face everyone trusts too easily. He crossed Monarch’s floor like he owned it, never needing to show off. No smile; no real spark. He just looked tired.

Not the harmless kind.

He walked straight up to the counter and sat down right in front of me.

We watched each other for a beat.

Then he loosened his tie, glanced up, and said, “Tequila.”

Deep voice. Calm. Almost bored. I poured him a shot.

He knocked it back in one swallow and tapped the bar. “Another.”

I poured again.

By the fourth shot, I realized something wasn’t right. He wasn’t here for fun. The man looked like he wanted to forget.

“You know,” I said, trying to sound casual, “most people stop at three.”

“Most people are weak.”

“Sounds unhealthy.”

He finally met my eyes.

Just like that, my confidence fell right through a hole in the floor. His eyes weren’t cruel, just detached. He watched people, waiting to see how they’d screw up next.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Charlotte.”

“You always talk this much to customers, Charlotte?”

“Only the rude ones.”

A hint of a smirk flickered at his mouth. Almost a smile.

He pushed the glass forward again. “Another tequila.”

This time I poured slower.

“You celebrating something?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then what? Mourning?”

He tapped the bar with one finger, steady, like ticking off time. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“And you drink a lot.”

He almost smiled for real that time.

My phone buzzed in my apron—Bruce, again. I let it ring. The man noticed anyway.

“Boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

I grabbed another glass. “You don’t sound sober.”

That made him laugh, low and rough. Of course, even his laugh sounded expensive.

Suddenly it wasn’t awkward between us—it was worse. It felt interesting. And honestly, I hated that.

Because men like him only notice girls like me when they want something. And when they want things, they usually just take them.

“You look tired,” he said out of nowhere.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I gave a short, dry laugh. “Not much of a compliment.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

His eyes dragged across my face, slow and unhurried. He soaked in details most men never bother with.

“You look like you’re carrying everybody else’s problems,” he said quietly.

That caught me. Most guys look one place first. Not him—he looked right through me.

I crossed my arms. “You psychoanalyze everyone at bars?”

“Only interesting ones.”

My stomach tightens—warning bells.

I break eye contact. Big mistake. Because the next instant, he’s sliding a hotel keycard over to me.

Room 55. Royal Crest. Across the street.

I stared at the card, then at him. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know me.”

He didn’t blink. “I know enough.”

“And this… what is this?”

“A proposition.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Wow. Straight to the point.”

“You don’t seem like someone who likes games.”

He’s right, and I hate him a little for it.

I should just walk away, but I ask anyway. “How much?”

His face stays neutral. “Five thousand dollars.”

Glass nearly slipped from my hand.

That’s four months rent, my mom’s latest meds, Bruce’s never-ending debt. A little bit of breathing room.

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke about money.”

Without looking, he pulls out his wallet and places two grand on the counter. Cash. My throat goes bone dry.

“Upfront,” he says quietly. “The rest after.”

“You do this a lot?”

“No.”

“Then why me?”

He holds my eyes. “Because you looked at me and didn’t look impressed.”

Every woman in the lounge had noticed him tonight. Rich, good-looking, powerful. The kind of guy people write magazine covers about. But close up, there’s a kind of storm in him. Something restless.

“What time?” I ask, voice small.

“Midnight.”

It’s 11:14 PM.

“You’re confident.”

“You’ll come.”

I want to tell him off, but he sounds so sure.

“You don’t even know if I’m free.”

He glances at the phone buzzing in my pocket. “You need the money.”

That one stings. Because it’s true.

I look away so he can’t read my embarrassment. Mom in that crappy bed. Bruce’s broken promises. My own aching feet. All for what—nothing extra, never enough.

Five thousand dollars for one night.

“One condition,” I say finally.

He leans back, listening. “Go on.”

“No weird stuff.”

His first real smile appears, slow and sharp. Doesn’t soften him at all. “Define weird.”

“You’re annoying,” I mutter.

“And you’re still thinking about it.”

I can’t help it. I take the cash before I can change my mind. He watches, eyes steady.

“Room fifty-five,” he reminds me, voice softer. “Don’t disappear on me, Charlotte.”

“You haven’t even told me your name.”

“You don’t need it.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“It’s intentional.”

He stands up, looking even taller as he passes. Smells like money and whiskey up close.

“Don’t let anyone talk you out of coming,” he says, voice low.

He leaves. Suddenly the lounge feels empty, like everyone else is just background noise.

Jace’s POV

I should’ve just gone home. Seriously, that was the smart move. Instead, I sat in my car outside Royal Crest, watching the city lights blur through the glass, thinking about Charlotte. Annoying. Way too annoying.

Girls around me — there are two kinds. Interested or pretending to be. Charlotte? Didn’t even care enough for pretense. That made her dangerous.

I leaned back, tie loose, exhaustion pooling in my chest. The day was already a stupid marathon — business partners, fake laughs, my father parading me around like another shiny trophy from California. Every moment scripted, measured, packaged.

Inside Monarch, though, for ten minutes, something felt real for the first time in months. She just argued over tequila, saw right through whatever mask I wore for everyone else.

Phone buzzed. Father. Ignored it.

Thirty seconds later: Where are you?

I tossed the phone on the seat. Couldn’t remember the last time I just didn’t care what he thought.

I checked the clock. 11:52 PM.

She’s not coming. Smart choice, honestly. Girls get cold feet. Especially the smart ones.

I reached for the ignition just as someone knocked on the hotel door.

Interesting.

I opened it slow.

Charlotte stood in the hallway, bag clutched, knuckles pale. She looked colder now, more nervous, but she lifted her chin when she caught my eye.

“You’re five minutes early,” I said.

She raised a brow. “Sounds less cocky in your head, doesn’t it?”

Felt another smile tugging at my mouth.

She stepped inside, eyes darting around the suite — marble underfoot, sweeping city views, champagne on the table nobody bothered with. People usually react one way to money: quiet awe. Charlotte just looked tense, like money was another threat.

“You really stay in places like this?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

She nodded, and the room went quiet. Not gentle quiet, either. Heavy.

We both knew why she was here, but neither of us wanted to say it first.

“You can leave, you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious. “Trying to scare me off?”

“No.”

“So why say it?” She almost sounded offended.

“Because you look like you need permission.”

That landed. I watched her get defensive, pride and exhaustion battling for space.

“You think you know me already?” she murmured.

“No.”

I stepped closer.

“I just know people keep taking things from you.”

For a second, she looked raw and exposed. No walls, no mask. Just tired.

She turned away. “You talk too much for the mysterious type.”

“And you hide too much to be honest.”

She laughed, this time soft and small. Tired. Genuine.

“So… what now?” she asked after a beat.

I really looked at her. The way she held herself together, the strength just under all that weight. For reasons I still don’t understand, I suddenly wanted this night to mean something.

“You tell me,” I said quietly.

Charlotte searched my face for a long moment. Then she asked, “What happens after tonight?”

For once, neither of us pretended to know the answer.