Two Pink Lines

CALLA'S POV

Harsh light beat down on the cramped confines of my bathroom. I stood paralyzed, my hands gripping the edge of the chipped porcelain sink. Three plastic pregnancy tests sat lined up on the counter. Two stark pink lines glared back from every single stick.

Positive.

The reality slammed into my chest like a physical blow. The air vanished from my lungs. I sank to the cold, unforgiving floor tiles, pulling my knees tight to my chest. Just two months ago, my future felt mapped out. I possessed a boyfriend, a loyal best friend, a secure place within my pack hierarchy, and a steady waitressing job.

Now, at twenty-four years old, that life was ash. I was alone in a sprawling city. Taped to the front door of my dingy apartment was an impending eviction notice. And resting on my chipped bathroom counter was the impossible truth: I was three months pregnant. The father was a ruthless billionaire from a random, reckless one-night stand. A man who did not even know my last name.

Panic clawed up my throat. The suffocating terror spread rapidly through my chest, making my hands shake. Before the panic could fully consume me, my cell phone rang.

The sharp trill interrupted the silence of the apartment. I scrambled for the device. The caller ID flashed an unknown number. My fingers trembled as I answered.

"Hello?"

"Is this Calla Hayes?" a woman asked. Her voice was crisp, a hyper-professional clip that demanded immediate attention.

"Yes."

"I am Sylvia Rossi, calling directly from Wolfe Enterprises." She did not pause for breath. "Mr. Wolfe is searching for a new executive assistant. Miraculously, your name surfaced in our candidate search. Are you available for an in-person interview tomorrow at nine AM sharp?"

I blinked rapidly. My brain short-circuited. I stared at the peeling paint on the bathroom ceiling, trying to process her words. "I never submitted an application to your company."

"Nevertheless," Sylvia pushed past my confusion with raw corporate insistence. She was immovable. "Mr. Wolfe wishes to meet you. Are you available?"

I looked at the stark positive tests on the counter. I pictured the eviction notice glaring on my front door. I mentally calculated my depleted bank account—forty-seven dollars left to my name.

"Yes," I heard my own voice say, mechanical and distant. "I will be there."

"Nine AM sharp. Do not be late." The line went dead.

The crushing gravity of the situation settled over my shoulders. Kaelen Wolfe. The man whose child was currently growing inside me had just summoned me to his domain for a job interview.

I lowered the phone and stared at the empty, silent walls of my apartment. "This is going to be a disaster," I whispered.

The following morning, I stood on the crowded pavement, staring up at the monolithic black glass and steel structure of Wolfe Tower. The building loomed over the city block, designed to intimidate and project an aura of untouchable power.

I tugged at the lapels of my cheap thrift-store blazer. I glanced down at my sensible shoes. I had literally colored in the scuff marks with a black Sharpie before leaving the apartment. I did not belong here among the sleek suits and tailored briefcases. But the phantom weight of my bank balance forced my feet forward.

I pushed through the revolving glass doors. A receptionist handed me a visitor badge and pointed me toward the elevators. The ride up to the terrifying fifty-eighth floor felt like an ascent to an execution. My stomach twisted into tight knots as the floor numbers ticked higher.

The metal doors slid open. Sylvia Rossi waited on the pristine floor. She took one look at me and took charge.

"Follow me," she ordered.

She marched down a long corridor framed by glass walls. I hurried to keep up with her rapid stride. We passed endless rows of desks and glass-walled offices. Every employee we passed looked heavily caffeinated and visibly stressed. Tension hung thick in the air, a constant pressure pushing down on the staff.

"Mr. Wolfe's last three assistants quit without giving any notice," Sylvia said, delivering a chilling warning. She did not break her stride. "This role demands extreme resilience. It requires strict discretion and a titanium-thick skin."

I swallowed hard, clutching my cheap purse tighter. "What exactly happened to the previous assistants?"

Sylvia did not sugarcoat her answer. "He happened to them," she replied flatly.

She pushed open a massive set of double doors. I stepped inside, feeling like I was walking into the epicenter of a hurricane.

Kaelen's massive, sleekly designed office stretched out before me. The room radiated a silent, suffocating aura of unyielding power.

Kaelen stood commandingly behind his large desk. He possessed the still, dangerous energy of an apex predator. He ended a phone call and turned to face me.

Our eyes locked. My breath hitched in my throat. For exactly half a second, a distinct flicker of recognition flashed deep in his cool gray eyes. I saw the memory of our shared night spark in the cold depths. But before I could process it, a heavy, impenetrable mask of professional blankness slammed down over his features. The recognition vanished.

"Miss Hayes," he commanded smoothly, his voice devoid of any inflection. "Sit down."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My legs turned to lead. I stumbled forward, my cheap shoes sinking into the plush carpet. I barely managed to reach the leather chair across from his desk without tripping over my own feet.

I gripped the armrests. "Mr. Wolfe," I managed to say.

He stared at me, his face carved from stone. "I see you remember me."

"Hard to forget," I replied. My voice came out much tighter than I intended.

There was zero warmth left in the man who had defended oatmeal at the bar two months ago. The magnetic, dangerous charm from that night was gone. He was pure, calculating business.

He picked up a sleek black folder from his desk and flipped it open. He rattled off the terms in a flat, demanding tone.

"The position pays a staggering salary of two hundred thousand dollars a year," he stated. "Comprehensive benefits. A signing bonus. You would start Monday."

My jaw practically unhinged. I stared at him, sure I had misheard. "Two hundred thousand..."

"Is that an issue?"

"That is more money than I have earned in my entire life combined," I blurted out.

He shut the folder. He stood up and rounded the edge of the large desk, closing the physical distance between us. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. The magnetic warmth from our night together was eradicated, replaced by an imposing, cold corporate ruthlessness. He towered over me, a billionaire CEO laying a trap for prey.

"Then accept the offer," he challenged openly. His gray eyes bored into mine, daring me to decline. "Unless you somehow have somewhere better to be."

I wanted to run. But reality anchored me to the leather chair. The phantom weight of my pathetic forty-seven-dollar bank balance pressed down on my shoulders. The terrifying reality of a baby arriving in six months forced my hand. I could not afford pride.

"No," I conceded quietly. "I do not."

"Then we have a deal."

He extended his large hand toward me.

I stared at his palm. I reached out and took his extended hand.

The physical contact sent the exact same jolt of electricity shooting straight up my arm as it had two months ago. The spark flared under my skin, hot and undeniable. I gasped softly, but his chiseled expression did not shift by even a microscopic fraction. He let go of my hand, his posture rigid.

"Sylvia will process your onboarding paperwork," he stated flatly.

It was a swift, brutal dismissal.

I grabbed my purse, stood up, and turned to flee the suffocating room. I kept my head down, counting my steps toward the massive double doors. I was inches from the safety of the corridor.

"Miss Hayes."

His voice cracked the silence one last time.

I froze. I slowly turned back around. I found him already staring at his glowing computer monitor. He had dismissed my physical presence in the room. He did not look up.

"Try not to disappoint me," he said.

He offered no warmth. He offered no playful nickname. There was zero acknowledgment that we had ever shared an intimate night together outside the sterile walls of this office. It was a freezing, impersonal directive delivered strictly to a subordinate.

I pushed the heavy doors open and escaped into the corridor. The cold air hit my flushed face. I desperately tried to convince myself that his amnesia was a relief. A blank slate meant safety.

I was almost convinced.