I said yes.

Sometimes I moaned it. Sometimes I whispered it. Sometimes I screamed it.

Yes. Every single time.

Over and over and over again.

And now—five weeks later—I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Yes, I was feeling a little down after breaking up with Zac, but that’s not why I had sex with a masked stranger. I said yes because Wolf reminded me of Marco—his height, his build, his voice, his charm.

I should’ve said no. But I didn’t.

When Wolf asked if I wanted him to slide his hands inside my bustier, I said yes. And when he palmed my breasts and played with my nipples and asked if I wanted more, I said yes.

When he propelled me toward the folly’s wall, stopping only when my nose was inches from the cold stone, and arranged my hands so they rested beside my head, I whispered yes. And when he bunched my dress in one fist and asked if he could touch me, I said yes.

When he tugged my panties to my ankles and danced his fingers down the crack of my ass and asked if I wanted more, I whispered yes. And when he rubbed my clit with his thumb and pushed three fingers inside me, making me shiver and shake against him, and asked if I was close, I screamed yes when I came.

When he asked if I had a condom, I said yes. And when he clenched his fingers into my hips and worked his thick cock into me, inch by luscious inch, and asked if it felt good, I whispered yes, even though it felt more than good. It felt amazing. 

When he asked if I wanted it deeper ... harder ... faster, I moaned yes. And when he fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before, I screamed yes, yes, yes, yes.

I said yes to Wolf, pretending that Marco was touching me ... that Marco was filling me with his cock ... that Marco was making me come.

Marco, whom I saw at the party, talking to Leo and Tessa as I left the ball to wander the garden. I know it was Marco because he was wearing a jester’s mask and his usual white dinner jacket. He always wears it at formal events and always pairs it with a bright white tuxedo shirt. 

I said yes because I wanted Marco, and I knew this stranger in a wolf mask was the closest I’d ever get. I knew it was wrong, but I still said yes.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve yelled no at the top of my lungs. 

But I didn’t.

So here I am, almost five weeks pregnant. I could add a long list of adjectives to go along with pregnant: disbelieving, scared, unsure, ashamed, overwhelmed... You get the idea. 

Standing in front of the farmhouse sink in my kitchen, I flip on the faucet. After filling a glass with tap water, I gulp down the massive prenatal vitamin my doctor prescribed.

I haven’t told anyone about my pregnancy, not even Tessa. We’re having brunch at our favorite restaurant in fifteen minutes, and I plan to tell her then.

I need to talk to someone, and I sure as hell can’t talk to the man who knocked me up. I don’t know what’s worse—that I don’t know his name, first or last, or that I wouldn’t recognize him if he was standing in line next to me at the neighborhood grocery store.

After stashing the bottle of vitamins in the cabinet behind some canned tomato soup—I don’t want someone to see them and discover my secret—I spare a minute to check my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door in my entryway.

I’m not showing yet, I guess it’s way too early for that, and my red ankle-length pants are only a tiny bit snugger in the waist, likely from bloating. But my boobs not only feel bigger, they look bigger too, so I’m wearing a multicolored chevron print cardigan over my black T-shirt to conceal them as best I can.

My boobs offered the first clue that I might be pregnant. Although my period was a couple of days late, I wasn’t too concerned because it shows up late every once in a while. But then I noticed my boobs were sore—so sore I could barely stand to wear my softest, most comfortable bra.

Even though I told myself not to panic, that’s when I started to worry. I reminded myself that Wolf used a condom. I reminded myself that women have sex all the time without getting pregnant.

While I could ignore my missing period and my aching breasts, I couldn’t ignore the nausea that hit me the moment I rolled out of bed in the morning. Nor could I ignore the overwhelming exhaustion I felt only a few hours after I woke up.

When I took the first home pregnancy test, no more than five seconds ticked by before two lines showed up. They weren’t shy either. They were bold, just like I was the night of the masquerade ball.

Those two vivid lines screamed the truth: I was pregnant. Even worse, I had no idea whose baby I carried.

Hearing my phone vibrate, I rush to the bar separating the kitchen from the living area and scoop it up. I have a text from Tessa: At the restaurant. Got our fave booth.

I grimace, realizing I’m going to be late. Fortunately, the restaurant is only a few blocks from my apartment. After tucking my phone into my back pocket, I grab my leather hobo bag and set off at a fast pace.

When I get to the restaurant, I’m overheated and fantasizing about lemonade with freshly muddled strawberries. I wonder if this marks the beginning of pregnancy cravings.

As I walk through the door, chilled air gusts over me. I pause for a moment and close my eyes for a long blink. Is there anything better than a blast of air conditioning when your cheeks are flushed with heat and your forehead is shiny with sweat?

I give the hostess a brief wave before making my way toward the back of the restaurant. Tessa and I have been coming here for years for Saturday brunch, and we’ve kept our tradition, despite my sister’s new position of Queen of Alsania.

I haven’t seen Tessa in two weeks. She’s been traveling with Leo in an official capacity. They were in India when I found out I was pregnant. 

When I reach the booth, Tessa slides out to give me a hug. “Hey, Cassiopeia!” she says, smiling impishly. She knows how much I detest that nickname, which is exactly why she uses it.

“That’s a pretty dress,” I say.

She’s wearing a minidress in a bright coral hue that should clash with her hair but doesn’t. The halter neckline bares her shoulders and features a waterfall ruffle. It’s not something most queens would wear, but the people of Alsania love Tessa so much, they wouldn’t care if she wore a sequined G-string to a state dinner.

Tessa touches the flouncy edge of the ruffle. “Leo picked it out.”

I’m not surprised. Leo chooses most of his wife’s clothing. It’s his way of taking care of her ... of spoiling her. He doesn’t shy away from bright colors or sexy styles either. He likes for Tessa to shine. 

Once we’re settled in the booth, I pick up my water glass and take a big swallow. I’m thirsty all the time, and I read that excessive thirst was a common symptom of early pregnancy since the body is producing more blood. 

“I ordered a grapefruit mimosa for you,” Tessa tells me.

I murmur my appreciation. A mimosa sounds delicious. I haven’t had any wine or liquor since I found out I was pregnant, but I doubt a few sips of champagne will hurt the baby.

As for Tessa, she doesn’t drink. Although alcohol is no longer prohibited by her doctors, she’s afraid of putting extra strain on her liver.

The server comes by, and after delivering our drinks, he asks if we’re ready to order. When I tell him that I need a moment to look at the menu, I can sense Tessa’s surprise.

“You don’t want the spinach and bacon crepes?” she asks.

Topped with hollandaise sauce, the crepes are my favorite item on the brunch menu. But they don’t sound very appetizing this morning. In fact, the thought of eating spinach makes my stomach churn and triggers my gag reflex.

I shrug. “Just in the mood for something different.”

It doesn’t take me long to review the menu and make a decision. Once we’ve placed our order—pancakes with strawberries and chocolate-hazelnut drizzle and a side of sausage links for me and an omelet with ham, green apples, and Havarti cheese for Tessa—my sister’s gaze narrows on my face.

“You look tired.” Her tone isn’t critical, simply concerned. “Everything okay?” 

Although I’d planned to tell her about my pregnancy toward the end of our meal, I suddenly change my mind. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

I can actually see the moment when Tessa realizes what I said. Her eyes widen and her mouth slowly rounds into an O.

“Pregnant?” she repeats.

I nod. “I’m four weeks along. Almost five.”

“I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell if you’re happy about it.” She reaches across the table and grasps my hand. “If you’re happy, then I’ll say, ‘I’m so excited! I’m going to be an aunt!’ But if you’re not happy... if this isn’t what you want ... if this isn’t the right time...” She sighs. “Whatever you decide, you know I’ll give you all the love and support you need.”

Tears blur my eyes. “I’m too scared to be happy.”

Before I can blink, Tessa is sliding into the booth next to me, pressing her hip against mine and forcing me to make room for her. Wrapping her arm around my shoulders, she says, “Shh. Don’t cry. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. Telling Tessa about my pregnancy in a restaurant wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, especially given the hormones coursing through my body.

She rubs circles on my back for a few minutes before breaking the silence. “Have you made a decision yet?”

“Yes. I’m keeping the baby.”

She squeals. “I’m so excited! I’m going to be an aunt!”

I can’t help laughing. “In early February.”

“Have you told Zac?”

I’m confused for a moment before I realize why Tessa is asking about Zac: she thinks he’s the father of my baby. Her assumption makes total sense because I didn’t tell her about Wolf. I haven’t told anyone about him.

Zac may not have knocked me up, but he is partly responsible for the mess I’m in. When he told me that he needed to postpone our trip again, I questioned his commitment to me and our relationship. He said I wasn’t a priority—that his job was far more important—so I ended things.

I was disappointed about the breakup, but I wasn’t devastated. I don’t want to be with a man who doesn’t care about my feelings or want to spend time with me.

If Zac hadn’t canceled our trip, I wouldn’t have attended the masquerade ball and run into Wolf—literally. It’s just my luck that the first time I do something risky, I end up pregnant.

At the very least, I should’ve been smart enough to ask Wolf for his real name. But I didn’t, simply because I wanted to enjoy the fantasy I created in the folly for a little longer. 

Tessa nudges my shoulder. “Have you told Zac?” she asks again.

“No, not yet.”

I feel guilty about misleading my sister about the paternity of my baby, but not guilty enough to admit the truth. I don’t want to tell her about Wolf. I know she won’t judge me, but I’m still embarrassed ... still ashamed.

I’m not ashamed that I had sex with a stranger. I’m ashamed that I’m pregnant, and I have no idea who fathered my child. 

My feelings probably have something to do with being adopted. I have so many questions about my birth parents, from big ones like, Why did you give me away? to little ones like, What’s your favorite color? Those questions will never be answered.

I never wanted my children to wonder like I’ve wondered. I wanted them to know. To know the answers to the big and little questions. To know who their parents are and how they came together.

I’ve always pitied the women who have to face an unplanned pregnancy without a partner. I never imagined I’d be one of them.

Maybe it makes me makes me conservative or old-fashioned, but I wanted to be married before I brought a child into the world. I know a lot of people think marriage isn’t important, but it is to me.

“How do you think he’ll take the news?” Tessa asks, still talking about Zac.

“I don’t know.”

Eventually, I’ll have to tell my sister that Zac isn’t the father of my baby. I know she’ll have a lot of questions—questions I won’t be able to answer.