The espresso machine hissed like it shared her mood.
Sera Marlow slammed a new shot into the portafilter with a little more force than necessary. She was halfway through a burnt caramel latte, a minor emotional crisis, and a Spotify playlist called Hot Girl Coffee Grinds when the universe decided to pull the rug out from under her.
Again.
Sera elbowed the espresso machine with a soft grunt, willing the old thing to spit out one more shot of passable caffeine. And if the universe had any ounce of mercy left, the next customer wouldn't order a half-sweet, non-fat, oat milk vanilla latte with extra foam.
She hated extra foam. Foam was betrayal disguised as art.
"Dammit," Sera muttered, scrubbing her sticky cheek with the back of her hand and only succeeding in making it worse. She wiped her hands on her apron, already a battlefield of coffee stains and flour smudges.
"Marlow!" her manager barked from the back. "You forgot to update the inventory again!"
"Yeah, and you forgot to give me a raise," she deadpanned, swiping her arm across the counter.
It was 11:13 AM. Her fourth shift this week. Her second since sunrise. One of her shoelaces had come untied five minutes ago, but she hadn't had the emotional bandwidth to care.
"Order up," Sera called, sliding the cup down the counter. Her hands smelled like cinnamon and desperation. Paint was still smudged on the side of her neck from last night's project.
Her sleep schedule? Theory. Savings account? Myth. And her love life? Non-existent. Just like her appetite for nonsense before 10 AM.
"I swear," she blurted to the espresso machine, "if you jam on me now, I will personally launch you into the sun."
The machine groaned. She groaned louder.
Then the doorbell chimed.
Sera didn't look up right away. She was juggling a latte and the existential dread of her dwindling bank account. But the air changed. Like someone had turned down the volume of the entire cafe.
Heads turned. Customers noticed. Conversations died. Even the kid stopped crying.
She looked up.
And instantly wished she hadn't.
He stepped in like a storm that didn't knock. Dark gray suit, crisp as sin. Black coat over his arm. Jaw sculpted by gods who clearly had a bias for dramatic entrances.
He looked like trouble wearing cologne that cost more than her rent. Intimidatingly tall. Metallic grey eyes that didn't just look at you, but scanned, dissected, and left you exposed. His icy gaze swept the café with the kind of controlled detachment that said, You're lucky I'm even breathing your air.
The room hushed. Even the old espresso machine gave a nervous wheeze.
Her heart dropped. Right to her toes.
Sera straightened, brushing a streak of flour from her apron and wondering which Kardashian-level influencer had wandered into their humble caffeine cave. Maybe he was an actor filming something nearby. A lawyer. A hitman. A vampire.
Holy. Hotness.
He stopped in front of the counter, and she swore her body tilted forward a centimeter, unable to resist his gravitational pull.
"Sera Marlow?" His deep, gravelly voice rolled over her. Refined. Lethal.
She blinked. "Uh… what? That's me. Can I help you?" she asked, trying to sound unimpressed and definitely not intimidated.
"I'm Evander Thorne Ashford." His gaze met hers. Steel meeting flame. A swarm of butterflies took flight over her stomach. "We need to talk."
Oh hell no. Every bone in her body screamed nope. But curiosity? It was a monster of its own.
Sera was so flustered by his appearance that she forgot to respond until Evander let out a small cough.
"Are you… are you here about a refund? Because if this is about the avocado toast, I swear that's a kitchen thing—" she hoped he didn't notice the flush blooming over her cheeks.
"I'm not here for food." Evander glowered at her beneath his thick, dark brows.
"Great," Sera said, clapping her hands together. "Then I'm sure you can take this non-food-related conversation outside. Like, far outside."
"I'm not leaving." He punctuated his words with a condescending tone that grated on her nerves.
Men. They always ruined it by opening their mouths. Any attraction that Sera had felt toward him crumbled into ash, dying the quickest death in her history with the opposite sex.
She leaned over the counter and hissed, "Sir, you're terrifying the cinnamon roll lady in booth three. Please go terrify someone else."
Evander simply turned lazily and gestured toward the manager with the elegance of someone who was used to boardroom battles and billion-dollar mergers.
"Excuse me. I'd like to place an order," he called, voice dipped in velvet and command.
The manager, poor Eric, nearly tripped over himself. "Y-Yes! Uh, Sera, please assist Mr… uh, Mr. Suit."
"What?" she gasped. "Eric, are you serious right now—?"
"Take his order, Marlow. Please."
Betrayal. Actual, workplace betrayal.
Sera glared at Evander, who looked mildly amused for a man made of granite. He slipped into a seat by the window like he owned the damn place—which, with his vibe, he probably did.
Clenching her jaw, she grabbed a notepad and marched over. Her hair frizzed in protest. "What can I get you?" she asked through gritted teeth.
"A flat white," Evander said, not looking up from the gold watch he'd just checked. "Oat milk. One sugar. Extra hot."
She stared. "...Are you stalking my coffee order?"
His gaze flicked up, finally. "No. I'm stalking my child."
Silence.
Total, brain-scrambling, stomach-dropping silence.
"I'm sorry—what now?" she scrunched her nose.
Evander opened a sleek leather folder and slid it across the table. It was a letter. From a fertility clinic. With her name. Her egg donor number. Her signature.
"I believe you're familiar with this?" he cued.
Sera stared at the folder. Then at him. Then the folder again. "I—I donated eggs. Once. It was anonymous."
"It was supposed to be anonymous. But due to a clerical error, the embryo was mistakenly implanted in the donor. You." Evander didn't raise his voice but she still heard him loud and clear.
Her brain short-circuited. "That's not… you're saying I'm… pregnant?"
"Yes."
"With your child?"
"Yes."
Irritation still stabbed at her. She choked out a laugh which she turned quickly into a cough. "Okay, you need to leave. You're obviously insane. Like, I-don't-even-know-which-Netflix-series-you-escaped-from insane."
Evander didn't budge. "You're six weeks. The clinic confirmed it. They tried to contact you. I'm here because this situation requires immediate action."
Sera snatched the envelope, yanked it open, and skimmed the paper inside. Her eyes flew over the words, desperate to stitch sense from nonsense.
"Due to a critical identity error during the embryo transfer procedure at Bionex Fertility Center, the embryo created using your donated egg and Mr. Ashford's sperm was mistakenly implanted into your uterus.
We sincerely apologize for this unprecedented error and are prepared to offer full support during your gestation period."
Her breath stopped. Her pulse didn't.
This was a joke. It had to be. A prank. A reality show? Hidden cameras?
Sera looked up. He hadn't moved. Still as a glacier. "I'm not pregnant."
He shot a brow. "You are."
"No. No, I'm not—I donated eggs in exchange for money. That was just to pay off some student debt. That's not how this works." She gaped at him, mustering a strained smile.
"Artemis Tower," Evander stood. She hated how tall he was. "10 AM. Tomorrow. My legal team will be present. I suggest you come. We have a lot to discuss."
Her jaw dropped. "Y-you think…" Sera sputtered, uncharacteristically speechless. "..I'm just going to walk into some sleek office building and hand over my uterus like it's a carry-on bag?"
Evander managed his cuffs. "No. I think you're going to walk in because despite your sarcasm, you're smart. You'll want answers. And a plan." He narrowed his eyes in a fraction of an inch.
"Also..." His eyes flicked to the mess on her apron, the crooked name tag, the smudge of syrup on her wrist. "This job isn't going to cut it."
With that, Evander turned and left.
The door shut behind him.
And then—he was gone. Just like that. Like a storm that never asked permission.
The cafe noise slowly returned. Sera stood frozen, holding the folder like it might bite her. She glanced down at the chocolate sauce on her sleeve. At the espresso machine blinking angrily, and the manager shouting something about oat milk again.
Sera was a complete mess. But maybe that was the only reason this was happening to her. She looked at the envelope again. Then back at the door he'd disappeared through.
"What the hell..." she muttered. "Pregnant? Me?" Her laugh came out cracked.
Because of course. Of course, the most emotionally constipated Greek-statue-of-a-man she'd ever seen would show up mid-shift to tell her she was accidentally pregnant with his billionaire baby.
The universe had jokes. And she was the punchline.