Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Heat and Whiplash

Ashley didn’t expect him to show up. Especially not two days later, at 8 p.m., holding a paper bag of Chinese takeout and standing awkwardly outside her peeling apartment door like he’d never been humbled a day in his life.

But there he was.

No bodyguards. No luxury car humming at the curb. No tailored suit.

Just Kyle.

In black jeans, a hoodie that somehow still screamed money, and that same complicated expression like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologize, argue—or own her.

Ashley blinked at him, arms folded, belly just beginning to round under her old oversized tee.

He lifted the bag. “You said you were craving dumplings in the hospital. I remembered.”

Her brows raised. “What is this? Some PR stunt? CEO makes peace with pregnant maid?”

His jaw flexed. “I’m not here for press.”

She didn’t move. “Then what? Guilt?”

A pause.

“No,” he said. “I think it’s something worse.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

After a moment, she stepped aside and let him in.

Her apartment was small—one-bedroom, half-clean, dimly lit. A cracked coffee table. A sagging couch. Kyle looked out of place, like a panther in a birdcage.

He set the bag on the counter, moving carefully, watching her from the side of his eye.

“Do you eat on the couch or the floor?” he asked, as if this were normal.

“Floor,” she said. “Couch has a spring that bites.”

He smirked a little. “Classy.”

“Get used to it.”

They sat. Ate in silence. She watched him every time he looked away. He chewed slower than most people. Thought deeper. Still arrogant, still so self-assured it made her want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath.

Halfway through dinner, he asked, “How far along are you?”

“Almost two months.”

He nodded, silent. Then, carefully, “Have you had any scans? Bloodwork?”

She shook her head. “Can’t afford it yet.”

Kyle froze.

Then: “That’s done. You’ll go tomorrow.”

She bristled. “You don’t get to bark orders.”

“I’m not,” he said—too calmly. “I’m protecting my child.”

“You don’t even know this child.”

He looked at her then. Dark. Intense.

“I will.”

Something about the way he said it—so possessive, like the baby inside her already bore his name, his blood, his expectations—made her spine straighten.

Ashley stood. “Don’t come in here playing house one minute and acting like a controlling bastard the next.”

“I’m not playing house,” he said, rising too.

And then his voice dropped.

“I’m trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to be gentle with a woman who spits fire every time I get close.”

She stepped back. “Then maybe don’t get close.”

He followed. Two steps. “Maybe I can’t help it.”

His hand brushed her elbow—just enough to make her flinch. But then his thumb moved, soft, slow, deliberate. Like he was memorizing her. Like he was asking, Do you remember me now?

She did.

Her chest rose fast. “Don’t do that.”

He didn’t stop. “You think I don’t care. But I do. Too much. That’s the problem.”

Then his tone flipped—sharper, colder.

“But don’t mistake my care for weakness, Ashley. If you think you can shut me out, keep my child hidden, run some tragic single-mother fantasy—I won’t let it happen.”

She shoved his hand off. “You think you can control everything with money and attitude. You can’t control me.”

He stepped closer, anger flickering in his eyes. “I already did, once.”

Silence.

The air thickened with electricity. Heat. Hurt.

And then—

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He stared at her, lips parted.

Then slowly, he nodded. “Good. That’s a start.”

And he walked out, slamming the door so hard it rattled the frames.

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