Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

***EMILY***

The second level of the Wolfe estate library feels entirely disconnected from the rest of the modern world.

I walk slowly along the wrought-iron balcony, trailing my fingertips over the cool metal railing. The air up here is thick with the scent of aged leather bindings and decaying paper. A few ambient brass reading lamps cast warm, amber pools of light against the towering mahogany shelves, leaving the upper corners of the vaulted ceiling completely swallowed by shadow.

I pull my phone from my pocket and illuminate the screen. I spent the car ride back to the estate compiling a digital list of the most highly regarded commercial interior design volumes. I navigate the Dewey Decimal markers etched into small brass plates on the edges of the shelves, cross-referencing my list with the physical archives.

I finally locate the architectural section. The books here are massive, heavy tomes, bound in rich burgundy leather with faded gold-leaf lettering stamped onto the spines.

I carefully wedge my fingers between the thick volumes, remembering Leo’s strict warning about handling the priceless prints. I slowly extract three massive textbooks detailing spatial flow, modern commercial lighting, and structural load distribution. The combined weight of the three books is surprisingly heavy. I balance them precariously against my chest, shifting my grip to secure the glossy leather covers.

As I pull the third book free, the sudden absence of pressure causes the adjacent volume to shift.

It is an older, significantly thinner book lacking any identifying title on the spine. Before I can free a hand to catch it, the book tips forward and slides right off the edge of the mahogany shelf.

It hits the wrought-iron walkway with a loud, aggressive thud.

The sound echoes like a gunshot in the cavernous, silent library. I wince, my stomach dropping instantly. I drop to my knees, resting my stack of architectural books carefully on the metal grating. I reach out for the fallen volume, terrified I just cracked the spine of a priceless, first-edition historical artifact.

The book is splayed open on the floor. Miraculously, the binding remains perfectly intact.

However, the impact dislodged a loose, folded piece of thick cream-colored stationery from between the yellowed pages. The paper rests against the dark iron grating.

I let out a heavy breath of relief. I reach down and gently pick up the fallen book. My eyes naturally drift toward the exposed pages, drawn to a highly intricate, hand-drawn illustration taking up the entire right-hand side.

The drawing depicts a jagged, crystalline structure. It looks like a complex metallic fragment, featuring sharp, geometric angles that seem to fold inward on themselves in impossible, defying ways. The shading indicates a dark, highly reflective surface, shot through with veins of lighter, glowing material.

My curiosity sparks immediately. I trace the edge of the illustration and look at the bold, heavily inked heading printed on the opposite page.

*Stellar Core Meteorite Gold.*

I lean back against the bottom shelf, crossing my legs on the cold iron walkway. I adjust the book on my lap and begin skimming the dense, academic text beneath the heading. The information reads like a classified military dossier disguised as geological history.

According to the text, Stellar Core Meteorite Gold is not an earthly metal. It is a highly specialized, localized metallic fragment formed billions of years ago during a catastrophic asteroid impact on the surface of Mercury. The extreme heat and unparalleled gravitational pressure fused the asteroid’s core with Mercury’s mantle, creating a material that physically shouldn’t exist in our solar system.

I run my finger down the page, my brow furrowing in deep concentration.

The material isn’t just rare; it possesses natural, flawless superconducting crystal templates. The text hypothesizes that a single ounce of this Meteorite Gold could revolutionize global energy distribution and advanced weaponry. It represents the absolute pinnacle of cutting-edge, next-generation technology. It defies the standard laws of thermodynamics, offering zero electrical resistance at room temperature.

I turn the fragile page carefully, the dry paper rustling loudly in the quiet room.

The history of the material on Earth is incredibly violent. Decades ago, the Etland Empire—a highly aggressive, militaristic superpower operating across the globe—poured billions of dollars into establishing a black-site research institute explicitly dedicated to studying the Stellar Core Meteorite. They brought in the most brilliant physicists and chemical engineers on the planet.

For thirty grueling years, the Etland Empire made absolutely zero progress. The crystal templates were too complex to decode.

Then, the text details a catastrophic conclusion. An unfathomably massive explosion leveled the entire research institute. The blast resulted in multiple horrific casualties, wiping out the entire team of senior researchers. The official Etland Empire report cited a volatile chemical leak, but the final sentence on the page sends a sharp chill down my spine.

*Following the blast, the primary fragment of Stellar Core Meteorite Gold was recorded as missing. It has never been recovered.*

I stare at the yellowed page. A highly classified, world-altering piece of extraterrestrial technology vanishes in a lethal explosion. It sounds like a ghost story told in military circles, a myth chased by ambitious governments and ruthless corporate empires.

I look down at the thick cream-colored stationery that fell out of the book.

I pick up the folded paper and gently pry it open. There is no letter written inside. There is no detailed map or hidden code.

There is only a single name, written in dark black ink right in the center of the page.

*Lucian Cross.*

I stare at the handwriting. A violent jolt of recognition strikes my chest. The script is aggressively precise. The letters are formed with sharp, rigid angles, pressing into the heavy paper with intense, unyielding pressure. There is absolutely zero hesitation in the pen strokes. It is the handwriting of a man who demands total control over every single aspect of his environment.

It is Alistair’s handwriting.

I have seen him sign corporate acquisition documents and legal NDAs at his mahogany desk. I know the distinct, sharp loop of his cursive perfectly.

My mind begins racing, rapidly connecting the dark, fragmented pieces of Alistair’s hidden life. He is the CEO of the Wolfe empire, but he also spends his nights locked inside a secret armory, weaving highly classified, bulletproof nanofiber vests. He actively funds untraceable criminal syndicates in the Vanguard City underworld. He operates a shadow war against lethal mercenaries from the Obsidian Triangle.

A man like Alistair wouldn’t leave a note inside a dusty historical archive unless it held immense, tactical significance.

He is actively searching for the Stellar Core Meteorite Gold.

The realization hits me with staggering force. He is hunting for the most advanced superconducting technology on the planet. And whoever Lucian Cross is, he is the key. Lucian is connected to the missing meteorite, the Etland Empire explosion, or perhaps even the mercenaries hunting the Wolfe family. Alistair tucked that name inside the exact page detailing the meteorite’s disappearance. It is a physical breadcrumb of his lethal obsession.

I look back at the intricate drawing of the jagged, crystalline fragment.

A strange, uncomfortable sensation begins to twist in the pit of my stomach. My eyes lock onto the geometric patterns etched into the dark metal surface. The sharp angles and the inward-folding crystal veins look incredibly, terrifyingly familiar.

I drop the piece of paper onto the iron grating. I dig my phone out of my pocket with trembling fingers.

I open my encrypted photo gallery. My biological mother died when I was very young, leaving me trapped with a vicious stepmother who systematically destroyed or threw away almost everything my mother owned. I managed to salvage a tiny handful of her personal effects, taking high-resolution digital scans of the keepsakes before hiding them away for safety.

I scroll rapidly through the secure folder, swiping past scanned birth certificates and old, faded photographs.

I find the specific image file. I tap the screen, expanding the high-resolution photo of my mother’s oldest, most guarded keepsake—a strange, heavy pendant she wore hidden beneath her clothing every single day until her death.

I place the glowing phone screen directly next to the yellowed page of the textbook.

My breath completely stops. The air rushes out of my lungs, leaving me hollow and dizzy.

The image on my phone perfectly matches the hand-drawn illustration in the book. The jagged, asymmetrical shape. The dark, reflective surface. The exact, precise alignment of the lighter, crystalline veins running through the center of the metal.

My mother’s cheap, obscure pendant isn’t costume jewelry.

It is a fragment of the Stellar Core Meteorite Gold.

My hands begin to shake violently. The heavy architectural books resting by my knees are entirely forgotten. I stare at the dual images, my brain completely short-circuiting as it tries to process the impossible reality. My mother was an ordinary woman. She lived a quiet, tragically short life. She had absolutely no connection to global corporate empires, cutting-edge astrophysics, or military research facilities.

So how in the world did she die possessing a missing piece of extraterrestrial technology that the Etland Empire killed an entire institute of scientists trying to control?

And more terrifyingly—what will Alistair do if he ever finds out his contractual wife is holding the exact artifact he is hunting?