Chapter 2 - Freezing Rain and Double Shifts
Four months later, the wind blowing off Lake Michigan felt like frozen needles, piercing through worn wool coats and freezing the slush on the sidewalks of downtown Chicago.
Inside the neon-lit interior of Joe’s All-Night Diner, the smell of fried grease, stale coffee, and bleach hung thick in the air. A small radio behind the counter played muffled jazz classics while the diner’s solitary night waitress wiped down vinyl booths with a damp rag.
Layla Bennett’s back ached with a deep, bone-weary pain.
At seven months pregnant, her body felt heavy and overextended. Her stomach was massive, the twins inside her moving and kicking with a restless energy that defied the cold and exhaustion surrounding them. The stained white apron tied over her maternity sweater could no longer hide her condition. Regulars at the diner had stopped asking questions weeks ago; they simply tipped her a few extra dollars and left her in peace.
The bell above the diner door jingled. A gust of freezing wind swept inside, carrying wet snow that melted instantly upon the worn linoleum floor.
Layla didn't look up immediately. She was balancing a heavy tray of coffee mugs, her focus entirely on serving a truck driver who had been sitting by the window for an hour.
“Refill on the black coffee, honey?” she asked tiredly, walking over to the booth.
She poured the steaming dark liquid into the ceramic mug without looking at the customer’s face. As she pulled back, a heavy hand gently caught her wrist.
Layla froze. The grip wasn't rough, but it possessed an unmistakable, unyielding strength.
Slowly, she raised her eyes.
The man sitting in the shadowy booth wore a dark, high-end wool overcoat that looked entirely out of place among the truckers and night owls. The collar was turned up against the wind, framing sharp, aristocratic cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed by dark stubble, and eyes as cold and piercing as winter steel.
Dominic Gallow.
For a terrifying second, the diner seemed to vanish. The ticking clock on the wall stopped. The hum of the refrigerator died away. Layla stood paralyzed, her breath catching in her throat, her hand still clutching the coffee pot.
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Dominic stared at her face, tracing every line of exhaustion, every pale curve of her cheeks, before his gaze dropped slowly down—past her apron, past her swollen sweater, directly to the undeniable, beautiful swell of her pregnancy.
“Layla,” he murmured. The sound of his voice carried a dangerous, quiet disbelief.
