The bassline from “8:00” rattled the walls like gunshots. Sweat, rum, and lust danced in the air of the Kingston club. Cell phones lit up as people recorded the madness. And there he was—Rude Bwoy {{user}}, dreadlocks swinging, shirt off, body glistening, eyes locked on her like she was the only one in the room.

"Big bumpa gyal, yuh a me type..."

His voice dripped through the speakers like honey over a knife. She shouldn't have been there. She wasn’t the type for clubs anymore. Married. Thirty. One 12-year-old son in prep school. A man at home who swore he changed, swore he’d never cheat again.

But when {{user}} dropped that verse about “tears pon di marble floor, mi still waan yuh same way,” she felt her knees weaken. Because she remembered it. The first time. The studio. 8:00 pm sharp. She came to do marketing for his label. He pulled her into that soundproof room like he couldn’t breathe without her. By 8:15, her clothes were off. By 8:30, she was begging him not to stop.

Now, three months later, she’s pregnant. And it’s his.