Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

*** NAYA ***

The view from the second floor of the upscale café offers a perfect vantage point of the busy commercial avenue. I press my manicured fingertips against the cool, condensation-covered glass of the large window, narrowing my blue eyes.

I follow Aunt Beatrice’s trembling, pointed finger. Directly across the street, standing beneath the harsh glow of a flickering neon streetlamp, is a small cluster of people exiting a dusty, vacant brick building.

My upper lip curls instinctively into a sneer of profound, unadulterated disgust. I was raised in the absolute pinnacle of high society. I know how to spot cheapness from a mile away. The two girls standing on the sidewalk are practically dripping with lower-class mediocrity. One wears a faded, wrinkled blazer that looks like it was dug out of a bargain bin, clutching a frayed canvas purse. The other girl is aggressively unremarkable, sporting a bouncy ponytail and clothes that lack a single recognizable designer label. They look like absolute peasants. The fact that they are even allowed to walk the premium pavement of the Vanguard Medical University district is an insult to the zoning laws.

I shift my gaze away from the tragic supporting cast, my eyes landing directly on the woman standing in the center of the group.

She wears plain denim jeans and a simple, unbranded shirt. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders in loose, unstructured waves. She completely lacks the polished, flawless aesthetic required to survive in my world. She looks incredibly ordinary.

But as the neon streetlight catches the sharp angle of her jaw and the distinct shape of her dark eyes, a violent jolt of electricity strikes the base of my spine.

I stop breathing. My heart skips a heavy, agonizing beat.

I have seen that face before.

The memory flashes behind my eyes with blinding clarity. It was a few months ago, at the annual Vanguard City Charity Gala. The ballroom was overflowing with billionaires and corrupt politicians. I spent the entire evening desperately trying to corner Alistair Wolfe. When I finally approached him, slipping a glass of vintage champagne onto his table, his private phone lit up on the dark linen tablecloth.

He snatched the device away instantly, his icy blue eyes flashing with a highly guarded, protective intensity I had never witnessed before. But his reflexes were just a fraction of a second too late. I saw the lock screen. I saw the photograph of the dark-haired girl with the soft, unassuming smile.

I press my face closer to the café window, my breath fogging the pristine glass.

It is her. The girl from the photograph is standing right across the street.

The pieces of the puzzle violently slam together inside my head. The mysterious, hidden wife. The woman who deliberately trapped the most powerful CEO in the city with a sudden pregnancy. The wicked, calculating manipulator who threw Aunt Beatrice into a pitch-black concrete cell.

It is Emily Vance.

I have finally found my target.

A slow, incredibly sinister smile stretches across my face, pulling at the corners of my bright red lips. The boiling, chaotic anger in my chest instantly crystallizes into a sharp, lethal blade of pure intent. She is no longer an invisible ghost hiding behind the high, fortified walls of the Wolfe estate. She is right out in the open, standing on a dirty city sidewalk. She is entirely vulnerable. I can already picture the absolute ruin I am going to bring down upon her head. I will strip her of her dignity, her safety net, and the man who rightfully belongs to me.

"You recognize her."

Aunt Beatrice’s voice cuts through my dark, violent fantasies.

I pull away from the cold window and look across the glass table. Beatrice is staring at me, her dark eyes wide with genuine surprise. She dabs the corner of her eye with her white linen napkin, briefly dropping the weeping victim act.

"How do you know her face?" Beatrice demands, leaning forward. "Alistair kept her identity completely buried. The press has absolutely nothing on her."

"He was not as careful as he thought," I reply. My voice drops into a low, predatory register. I grip the handle of my limited-edition handbag. "I attended the global charity gala earlier this year. I tried to speak with him, and his private phone lit up right in front of me. She was his lock screen wallpaper. I saw her face before he managed to hide it."

Beatrice’s eyes widen even further. "His lock screen? Alistair never displays personal attachments. He operates like a machine."

"He is under her spell," I spit out, the words tasting like battery acid on my tongue. The sheer thought of Alistair looking at a picture of that plain, uneducated street rat every single time he checks his messages makes my blood boil. "She manipulated him completely. But the illusion ends tonight."

I cannot sit at this table for another second. The adrenaline surging through my veins demands immediate, aggressive action. I want to walk directly across that busy street. I want to march right up to her, look down at her cheap clothes, and slap that quiet, arrogant confidence right off her face. I want to tell her exactly who I am and promise her absolute destruction.

I push my chair back. The wooden legs scrape loudly and violently against the floorboards. I stand up, grabbing my heavy designer bag.

"I am going down there," I announce, turning toward the spiral staircase. "I am going to confront that filthy gold digger right now. I want her to know exactly who is coming for her."

"Stop!"

Beatrice lunges across the small glass table. Her hand shoots out, her fingers wrapping around my wrist with astonishing, bruising strength. She jerks me backward so hard I stumble slightly in my stiletto heels.

"Let go of me," I snap, trying to yank my arm free.

"Are you completely out of your mind, Naya?" Beatrice hisses. She does not release my wrist. She pulls me closer to the table, her dark eyes flashing with urgent, desperate warning. "Look out the window. Look at the man standing right next to her."

I turn my head, glaring through the glass pane. I look past Emily and finally notice the towering wall of muscle flanking her right side. He wears pitch-black tactical gear. He stands well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders and rigid posture screaming elite military training. He is currently scanning the street with cold, lethal precision.

"He is just a bodyguard," I scoff, completely unimpressed. "My father employs a dozen men just like him."

"That is Leo," Beatrice whispers harshly, finally letting go of my wrist. "He is a highly lethal special operations veteran. And he is not alone. Alistair assigned an elite security detail to guard her. She has eight bodyguards, Naya. Eight highly trained killers watching her every single move. If you run across that street and act rashly, Leo will drop you to the concrete before you can even raise your voice. Alistair will be notified instantly, and your element of surprise will be completely ruined."

I freeze. My stiletto heel stops an inch above the wooden floorboard.

*Eight bodyguards.*

The words echo repeatedly inside my skull. Eight elite, highly paid operatives assigned exclusively to protect a commoner in cheap denim jeans.

Fear does not enter my system. The warning does not make me hesitate. Instead, a massive, consuming wave of intense jealousy crashes over me, burning hotter than anything I have ever felt in my entire life. My chest physically aches with the sheer injustice of it all.

A security detail of that magnitude is the ultimate status symbol. It is a massive, undeniable declaration of Alistair’s immense wealth and his possessive devotion. It proves exactly how highly he values the woman carrying his heir.

That treatment belongs to me.

I am the daughter of the future president of this country. I was groomed from birth to walk the highest corridors of power. I belong in the penthouse suites. I belong on the arm of the Wolfe empire’s CEO, surrounded by a legion of tactical guards ensuring my absolute safety. Emily Vance stole my life. She stole my crown, my husband, and my security.

I sink slowly back into my chair, my knuckles turning stark white as I grip my leather handbag. I stare at the group across the street, my blue eyes burning with an intense, unyielding hatred.

"You are right, Aunt Beatrice," I whisper, my voice shaking with raw, vindictive emotion. "A public confrontation is entirely too messy. She doesn’t deserve a warning."

Beatrice leans back, a highly satisfied gleam returning to her dark eyes. "Patience is a weapon, Naya. You must strike when she is completely blind to the threat."

I watch Emily turn and walk down the sidewalk, the massive bodyguard shadowing her every single step. I commit the exact location of that vacant brick building to memory. I will not act rashly today. I will use my father’s endless political resources to hire the most ruthless private investigators in Vanguard City. I will dismantle her secret business, expose her vulnerabilities, and rip that stolen crown right off her head.

Alistair’s protection will mean absolutely nothing when I am finished with her.