Paternity Gamble

[Selene’s POV]

The triple-chocolate cake weighs about four pounds. I know because I made it from scratch, and I nearly dislocated my shoulder from whisking ganache.

The Philadelphia Ravens' training facility rises out of the October dusk, and I am about to be the World's Best Fiancée.

Dr. Selene Marlowe, team psychologist, can take the night off.

Tonight I'm just Selene.

The woman who spent hours perfecting Cassian's favorite dessert because it's his thirty-third birthday.

Six years. That's how long I've loved Cassian Drummond—since he walked into my office as a cocky twenty-seven-year-old point guard and told me he didn't believe in therapy but believed in winning.

And apparently I was part of the winning strategy.

His charm could melt glaciers. His jump shot could make angels weep. Last year, after the championship, he got down on one knee on the jumbotron in front of twenty thousand screaming fans and slid a two-carat diamond onto my finger while I ugly-cried on national television.

Franchise basketball star and staff psychologist. It shouldn't work, but somewhere between road trips and Sunday mornings in his kitchen, we built something that felt solid. I trust this man.

Tonight is cake and balloons and birthday surprises.

The security desk is staffed by Mr. Pop, a sixty-two-year-old grandfather who calls me "Doc" and always asks about my sister. He looks up when I push through the glass doors, and something in his face makes my stomach clench.

He won't meet my eyes. His gaze slides to the cake, then to the floor, then anywhere but me.

"Evening, Mr. Pop," I say, keeping my voice light. "Don't tell Cassian, okay? It's a surprise."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes look wet. "Doc, maybe you should—"

"I know, I know, I'm breaking protocol." I wave a balloon at him. "Just this once."

He doesn't stop me.

The hallway feels wrong. Too quiet, too empty. Two rookies round the corner and freeze when they see me. Actually freeze, like deer in headlights, before one of them mutters "oh, shit" and they both bolt in the opposite direction.

That’s… strange.

My heels click against the polished floor. The cake suddenly feels heavier.

They must be nervous about the surprise. Maybe they think I'm checking up on post-practice protocols. Maybe someone warned them that the birthday thing was happening and they don't want to spoil it.

Then Axel and Mateo appear at the end of the hallway, shoulder to shoulder like a wall of muscle.

Axel Nielsen: six-foot-eight of brooding Icelandic silence, pale skin, ice-blue eyes, sleeve of Norse tattoos. Mateo Velasco: six-foot-seven of Puerto Rican charm, perpetual smirk, curls that bounce when he argues with referees.

They've never particularly liked Cassian. I've always stayed impartial. Professional. They're my clients, after all.

"Dr. Marlowe." Mateo's voice is too bright, too loud. "Perfect timing, actually. I've been meaning to discuss… Uh… Something urgent with you. About my free throw percentage. Very urgent. Life-or-death urgent."

Behind him, Axel shifts his weight, positioning himself to block the hallway.

Subtle. But not subtle enough.

"Mateo, I appreciate the dedication, but it's after hours." I gesture with the cake. "Birthday surprise. Can this wait until—"

"It really can't." Mateo's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Please, Doc. Five minutes."

Axel says nothing. His jaw is tight enough to crack walnuts.

Something is wrong. The silence from Mr. Pop. The fleeing rookies. Now these two, standing like bodyguards at a funeral. My heart kicks against my ribs.

"Where's Cassian?" I ask.

Neither of them answers.

I push past them—Mateo actually reaches for my arm, then drops his hand like he thought better of it—and keeps walking. The private lounge is at the end of the hall. Cassian's favorite post-practice spot.

As I get closer, I hear a sound from inside that makes my blood run cold.

Moaning. Female. Two voices. And underneath it, a groan I've heard a hundred times in our bedroom.

My fingers find the keypad by muscle memory. The code is his birthday—0117—because of course it is. The lock clicks, and I shove the lounge door open with my hip, careful not to drop the cake.

The overhead lights are off, but there's a bright strip of light at the back of the room where the bathroom door is almost, but not quite, closed. The sounds are louder now, spilling through the gap.

Laughter. A choked-off gasp. My name, twisted into something filthy.

I cross the room and nudge the bathroom door with my elbow.

It swings inward and the cake hits the marble floor with a wet splat. Chocolate and ganache explode across white tile.

Cassian is bent over the counter. Two cheerleaders are with him—one underneath him, one on her knees beside him—and they're all making sounds that will haunt my nightmares until I die.

For a moment, nobody moves. The cheerleaders scramble, shrieking, grabbing at clothes. Cassian—my fiancé, my future husband, the man who proposed on the jumbotron—just sighs.

Like I've interrupted his dinner reservation. Like I'm the inconvenience here.

"Selene." His voice is flat. Almost bored. "Baby, come on. You knew the deal."

"The deal…" I repeat. The words taste like ash.

"I'm the star after all." He hasn't even pulled up his pants. "This is nothing. It doesn't mean anything. You're the one I'm marrying, remember?"

The two-carat ring suddenly weighs a thousand pounds on my finger. I look at it—the diamond that sparkled under stadium lights while twenty thousand people cheered—and I feel something crack open in my chest.

Not grief. Not yet. Something colder. Something final.

I never agreed to any deal.

The ring slides off my finger. I wind up like I'm pitching in the World Series and throw it at his chest hard enough to leave a bruise. He yelps, actually yelps, and stumbles backward into the counter.