His Baby, Her Secret

The hallway reeked of mildew and neglect, the kind of smell that lingered in your nostrils and made your skin feel sticky. It was the scent of age, of time that hadn’t been kind, of a building that had long since been forgotten by everyone except the people who lived in it. The cracked paint on the walls peeled like the bark of a dying tree, and every flicker of the dim ceiling light above cast long, dancing shadows that only amplified the suffocating sense of decay.

In the middle of that crumbling corridor, Tasha Todd stood like a statue carved from tension. Her breath caught in her throat as the landlord’s voice boomed around her like a cannon shot in a cave. The man—burly and balding, with a permanent scowl etched across his weathered face—loomed in front of her apartment door, arms crossed tightly across his broad chest. His fingers twitched with impatience, and every word he spat seemed to vibrate through the narrow hallway.

“I’m giving you just twenty-four hours, Tasha! Twenty-four hours, or you and that old grandmother of yours are out—on the streets!” he thundered, jabbing a stubby finger toward her face. Each syllable struck like a hammer blow. “I’ve been patient. More patient than I should have been. But enough is enough. This is your final warning.”

Tasha didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her legs had gone numb, her knees locked in place by the weight of his words. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, nails digging half-moons into her palms. She wanted to say something—anything—but her voice betrayed her. Her mouth opened, trembled, then closed again. Behind her lips, her teeth bit down to hold back the tears welling up, burning hot in her eyes.

The landlord let out a grunt of disgust, his mouth curling in contempt before he turned on his heel. His heavy boots clomped down the hallway with the same fury as his voice, his muttered curses echoing in his wake. “Useless tenants,” he growled. “Charity cases, all of them…”

When the echoes finally died, Tasha’s trembling hand reached for the door. She pulled it shut with a soft creak and a firm click of the lock, the sound small and hollow in the silence that followed. But the lock offered no sense of security—only the false hope of protection from a reality that was becoming impossible to ignore. Her back slid against the door as she slowly collapsed to the floor, her breath shallow and quick, her body a coiled spring of fear and exhaustion.

Inside, the apartment was no more forgiving than the hallway. It was dim and cramped, its air stale with the scent of old carpet and fried oil. The one-room unit they had called home for nearly five years was barely large enough to fit the essentials. A twin bed with a sagging mattress, a small wooden table marred with water stains and burn marks, and two mismatched chairs with wobbly legs. In the corner, a stained curtain hung lopsided, concealing a makeshift kitchen area that consisted of a single electric burner and a chipped sink. A kettle, older than Tasha herself, rested beside a few battered utensils and the last of their food supplies.

The lightbulb above flickered weakly, unsure whether to shine or surrender to the dark. Tasha sat down on the edge of the bed, her back hunched forward, eyes fixed blankly on a long crack running down the plastered wall. It reminded her of a scar—permanent, ugly, and impossible to ignore. One lone tear slipped down her cheek, cutting a clean path through the dust on her face.

She had nothing left to offer. No job. No savings. No miracles.

Just twenty-four hours.

Just one day to fix the unfixable.

She had not always lived on the edge of desperation. Not long ago—barely a year, maybe less—she’d had a steady job as a cashier at the corner grocery store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it had been honest work, enough to keep her and her grandmother fed and housed. But the store had shut down without warning, swallowed up by some corporate expansion or bankruptcy—she never got the full story. What followed was a descent into survival. A string of temp jobs. Cleaning offices. Babysitting. Selling personal items just to make rent.

Through it all, her grandmother had remained her rock—soft-spoken but resilient, offering quiet strength when the world turned cruel. The old woman, small and frail with snowy white hair pinned into a tidy bun, had worked all her life as a seamstress and now spent most days resting, her arthritis making even the simplest tasks painful. But she never complained. Never scolded. Always offered tea, a gentle smile, and words that wrapped around Tasha like a blanket.

Tasha’s thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of clinking china. Her grandmother shuffled into the room, moving carefully with the support of a worn wooden cane. She carried a small tray with two mugs of steaming tea—one for each of them.

“I heard the yelling,” she said softly as she set the tray down. “Was it Mr. Halston again?”

Tasha nodded slowly, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“He gave us twenty-four hours,” she said, her voice breaking. “That’s all.”

Her grandmother’s eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t gasp or panic. Instead, she reached out with her thin, wrinkled hand and gently brushed a strand of hair from Tasha’s forehead, tucking it behind her ear. Her touch was warm, calming.

“We’ve gotten through worse,” she said in her gentle voice. “And we’ll get through this too.”

“But Granny… how?” Tasha’s voice cracked. “We have nothing left to sell. We’re behind on utilities. And the food—there’s hardly enough to last us the week. I’ve been trying so hard, and still…”

Her words gave way to quiet sobs. Her grandmother pulled her into a fragile hug, their shoulders touching, their tea forgotten.

After a few moments, her grandmother cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. “Maybe I could try to get a small loan from the credit union. Just enough to buy us some time. A few weeks. That’s all we need, right?”

“No,” Tasha said firmly, pulling back and shaking her head. “We’re already in debt, Granny. The last loan isn’t even halfway paid off. I won’t let you do that again. We can’t afford the interest. I won’t let you risk everything for me.”

“But you’re already carrying so much,” the old woman whispered. “I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m not alone,” Tasha said, her voice steadier now. “We’re in this together. And I’m going to figure something out. I promise.”

She stood abruptly, wiping her eyes. There was no more time for tears. Only action.

“I heard from a friend that the nightclub downtown still needs cleaning staff after hours. They pay cash, and it’s night work. I’ll go there tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll try the hospital again. The emergency ward always needs someone to clean. If I can work both places, maybe… just maybe…”

Her grandmother looked unsure, but finally nodded, her face lined with worry. “Alright. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“I will,” Tasha said. She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and went to get ready.

By nightfall, she was dressed in her cleanest pair of jeans and a hoodie with frayed cuffs. Her handbag, the only memento of her mother—lost to a car crash when Tasha was only ten—hung from her shoulder like a charm of hope. She stepped out into the cool air, the sky a heavy blanket of stars and smog. The city was still alive with noise, with traffic, and laughter that felt a world away from her reality.

She caught a cab and stared out the window as they drove toward the heart of the city. The neon lights of downtown sparkled like false promises—bright, loud, dazzling, and out of reach.

When the car pulled up in front of the club, she paid with the last of the cash in her wallet and walked up to the service entrance. But before she could knock, a voice called out from the shadows.

“Tasha?”

She turned. Her heart skipped.

It was her boss—the club’s janitorial supervisor.

“Hey! I’m here for the shift,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He didn’t smile.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. “There’s been a change. Management hired someone full-time. They want consistency. I’m really sorry, Tasha.”

She stood frozen. “But I always show up. I do everything you ask.”

“I know. It wasn’t my call.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her beneath the buzz of neon, under the weight of a world that had just become heavier.

She walked away slowly, her steps heavy, her chest tight. Around the corner, out of sight from the club, she sank to the pavement and buried her face in her hands.

“What am I going to tell Granny?” she whispered into the night.

And the city offered no answer—just silence and the ticking clock of a deadline that refused to wait.

The night was alive with contradictions — pulsing with sound yet empty of comfort, bright with flashing lights yet dark in intent. Outside the velvet-draped walls of the downtown nightclub, the air hung thick with the mingled aromas of perfume, alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the unspoken secrets of a hundred strangers. Music thundered inside, its bassline vibrating through the concrete like a heartbeat too fast to control. Light from the club’s neon sign spilled onto the street in fractured colors, casting brief, shimmering reflections on puddles left behind by an earlier rain.

Tasha Todd emerged from the club’s side exit, her figure silhouetted in the haze of lingering smoke and city grime. Her heels struck the ground with a sharp click that echoed off the alleyway walls, each step punctuated with the bitterness of loss. Her stride, once purposeful, now faltered under the weight of defeat. Though the city never truly slept, for her, the night had already ended — prematurely and painfully.

She had just been dismissed from the one opportunity that had promised a reprieve from disaster. One cleaning job — that’s all she had hoped for, and it had slipped through her fingers like ash. Someone else had been given the role. Permanently. Without warning, without a second thought. No explanation that mattered. No apology that paid the rent.

Now, as she made her way down the dim alley beside the club, every detail seemed sharpened by her despair. The glint of broken glass on the pavement, the low rumble of laughter from inside the club, the biting chill in the early spring air — all of it felt like the city mocking her.

The money she had left was barely enough for a single meal, much less the rent that was due in less than twenty-four hours. Her grandmother, who had raised her with nothing but love and quiet strength, was waiting back home, unaware that their last chance might have just slipped away.

Tasha blinked hard, forcing back the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Not yet. Not until she was home and alone with the woman who had given up everything for her. Even then, she didn’t know if she had any tears left to shed.

But what she didn’t know — couldn’t know — was that she wasn’t alone.

A short distance away, leaning casually against the glossy hood of a black luxury vehicle, a man watched her.

Steve Scott was the kind of figure who turned heads the moment he stepped into a room — tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that cost more than most people's rent, his dark hair swept back in deliberate disarray. The streetlamp above bathed his chiseled features in golden light, casting dramatic shadows across the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones. His eyes, sharp and observant, followed Tasha’s every move.

He had seen her inside the club — not on the dance floor or at the bar, but speaking with the manager near the staff entrance. He’d noticed her body language before he even registered her face: tense shoulders, hopeful eyes turned cautious, then devastated. She wasn’t like the women he was used to — bold, polished, hungry for attention. There was something else about her. A rawness. A quiet strength undercut by desperation.

It intrigued him. And that intrigue, combined with his chronic boredom, pushed him forward.

He straightened up, brushing a fleck of imaginary dust from his sleeve, and approached her with the easy confidence of a man who had never once been told no.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced, like a jazz note on a quiet night.

Tasha stopped mid-step, startled. Her body stiffened, and she turned cautiously to face the voice. Her eyes scanned the stranger quickly — expensive suit, expensive shoes, the scent of cologne that hinted at wealth. His presence screamed money. But his smile made her uneasy.

She didn’t flinch, though. She’d dealt with worse.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone wary but calm.

“I was hoping I could help you,” he replied, stepping closer. “Steve Scott. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

Recognition flickered in her eyes, though she kept her expression neutral.

“Billionaire playboy Steve Scott?” she asked, arms folding instinctively across her chest. “Tech tycoon with too much time on his hands?”

He chuckled. “Guilty as charged. But tonight, I’m not here to talk business.”

“Then what are you here for?” she asked, her voice sharp with the edge of suspicion.

“I noticed you inside. You didn’t get the job, did you?”

Her jaw tightened.

He continued, unfazed. “I saw the way your face changed. Disappointment. Frustration. And now here you are, walking alone, clearly carrying the weight of something more than just a missed opportunity. I figured maybe... I could offer you a different kind of opportunity.”

Tasha raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What kind of opportunity?”

He smiled like he was closing a deal. “One night. With me. No strings attached. In exchange, I’ll give you three thousand dollars.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and awkward. Tasha’s breath caught in her throat. Her brain scrambled to process what she’d just heard.

Then: “Excuse me?” she said, incredulous.

“I’m offering you three thousand dollars for one night. No expectations after that. No judgments. Just an agreement between two adults.”

Her cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation. “So that’s it? You think I’m... what? That I can be bought like some luxury item you collect?”

Steve’s smile faltered, but only for a second. “No. I think you’re someone in need. Someone who might be willing to make a hard decision.”

She shook her head, stepping back. “You’re disgusting. Do you always throw money at women when you want to sleep with them?”

He didn’t answer that directly. Instead, he said, “I don’t pretend to be a saint. But I see what I see. You need help. I can offer that help.”

“And what about my self-respect? My dignity? What happens to that?”

“You get to keep it,” he replied, his voice softer now. “I won’t say a word. No one will know. It’s just one night. Then we go our separate ways. You get paid. You walk away.”

Tasha was trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer gravity of the choice in front of her.

Her mind flashed to her grandmother’s tired eyes, to the unpaid rent notice sitting on their kitchen counter. Three thousand dollars could fix everything — at least for a while. Food. Medicine. A roof over their heads. Time to find another job.

But the cost…

She didn’t want to be that woman. She didn’t want to cross that line.

“I... I don’t know,” she murmured. “I need the money. But I don’t want to hate myself for what I did to get it.”

Steve reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black business card. He handed it to her.

“Think about it,” he said. “You have my number. If you change your mind tonight, call me. I’ll send a car.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, the taillights of his Bentley glowing like eyes in the dark as he drove off.

Tasha stood there for a long time, the card gripped tightly in her hand. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts a whirlwind of shame, rage, and temptation. She had never imagined this kind of choice would come her way — a literal price tag on her body, offered not with cruelty, but with cold logic.

She stared up at the sky. The stars were invisible behind the city’s smog and lights.

How had it come to this?

When she finally began to walk, she did so slowly, card still clenched in her hand. She didn’t know if she would call. Didn’t know what decision would be waiting at the end of the night.

But she knew one thing for certain:

Desperation changed people.

And tonight, she was dangerously close to the edge.

The night had fallen softly over the city, cloaking the streets in a gentle hush that made the lights glow warmer and the shadows stretch longer. Steve Scott’s sleek black car cut through the silence like a blade, its polished body reflecting the dim orange of the streetlights as he maneuvered through the familiar roads that led to his favorite retreat—the Royal Crest Hotel. It was a place he often visited when he needed to escape the noise of the world, a place that offered both anonymity and luxury, where every corridor whispered of wealth and exclusivity. For Steve, it wasn’t just a hotel—it was a second home, a sanctuary tailored to his tastes.

He drove with the smooth confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and why. Dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that complemented his tall, chiseled frame, Steve looked every bit the billionaire he was—a man used to control, precision, and getting what he wanted. His hands were firm on the wheel, but his mind was elsewh