Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

( VINCENT ZIGGLER )

The heavy, black plastic receiver feels like a block of solid ice pressed against my ear.

I swallow hard, but my throat is completely dry. A single bead of sweat rolls down my temple, stinging my eye, but I don’t dare lift a hand to wipe it away. The dial tone had clicked off a second ago, replaced by the smooth, dangerously quiet voice of Warren Sinclair.

I have managed Bordeaux 101 for six years. I have catered to senators, tech billionaires, and international royalty. In all that time, I have never once spoken directly to the boss of the Azure Syndicate. We receive our directives through intermediaries, shadows in tailored suits who drop off envelopes and expect absolute compliance. Speaking to the man himself feels like staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon.

"Mr. Sinclair," I stammer, gripping the edge of the mahogany host stand to keep my knees from buckling. "This is Vincent Ziggler. The manager at Bordeaux 101."

"I am aware of who runs my restaurants, Vincent," the voice on the line replies. The audio is crystal clear, carrying the faint sound of ice clinking against crystal in the background. "You used the emergency override. Explain."

"It’s a biometric failure, sir," I say, rushing the words out before my courage collapses completely. "A guest presented a Black Tier VIP card. The physical chip verified perfectly, but the fingerprint scan returned an unauthorized user error."

"A Black Tier card." Warren’s tone shifts, growing a fraction colder. "Who is holding it?"

I glance up. Emily Vance stands a few feet away, her posture relaxed, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of her trousers. She doesn’t look like a high roller or a syndicate enforcer. She looks entirely ordinary.

"Her name is Emily Vance," I say into the receiver.

A heavy, suffocating silence stretches over the line. I wait for the order. I wait for him to dispatch a cleanup crew. Instead, a sharp rustle of fabric comes from my right.

Before I can brace myself, a manicured hand with long, crimson acrylic nails reaches across the mahogany stand. Naya Zone grabs the receiver, ripping it directly out of my grasp.

"Miss Zone!" I gasp, lunging forward, but her massive bodyguard, Quinn, steps into my path, a solid wall of muscle blocking my reach.

( NAYA ZONE )

I press the receiver to my ear, rolling my eyes at the sweating, pathetic restaurant manager. Vincent Ziggler operates like a frightened dog. If you want something done in Asuir City, you have to seize control yourself.

"Mr. Sinclair," I say, projecting my voice so the syllables carry a crisp, authoritative weight. I make sure my tone conveys the exact amount of sophistication required for speaking with a billionaire. "This is Naya Zone."

I wait for the shift in his tone. I expect a polite greeting, a recognition of my status among the city’s elite.

"I don’t know you," Warren Sinclair replies. His voice is flat, carrying zero inflection and absolutely zero respect.

Heat rushes straight up my neck, flooding my cheeks with a stinging flush. I grip the plastic receiver tighter, my knuckles turning white. Nobody speaks to me like that. Not in the boutiques on Fifth Avenue, not in the VIP lounges, and certainly not here.

"I am Congressman Mark Zone’s daughter," I snap, making sure my enunciation is razor-sharp. "My father is the leading candidate for the presidency of this country. I assume you keep up with the political landscape, Mr. Sinclair."

"I keep up with my investments, Miss Zone," Warren answers smoothly. "Not the local circus. Why are you on my emergency line?"

My chest heaves in indignation. I take a slow, deep breath, forcing my anger down. Sinclair is an underworld boss. He lacks the refined manners of the political class, but he controls immense resources. I need him on my side to crush the little rat standing in front of me.

I turn my gaze toward Emily Vance. She is just standing there, completely unbothered, watching me with those calm, dark eyes. The sight of her makes my stomach churn. She secured Alistair Wolfe by getting pregnant, locking down the most eligible bachelor in the Wolfe Empire through sheer manipulation.

"I am doing you a massive favor, Mr. Sinclair," I say, injecting a heavy dose of condescension into my voice. "A woman is currently standing in the lobby of your establishment, trying to impersonate one of your VIP guests. She presented a fake card to bully your staff into giving her a private dining room. Her name is Emily Vance, and she is nothing but a cheap fraud."

"Is that so?" Warren says. A strange, unreadable quality enters his voice.

"Yes," I continue, riding the wave of my own confidence. "She failed the fingerprint scan. She clearly stole the card, or paid a counterfeiter to forge the insignia. I thought you would want to know someone is dragging the Azure Syndicate’s reputation through the mud right in the middle of your finest restaurant."

"A forgery," Warren says slowly. The ice in his voice is unmistakable now. "The Azure Syndicate takes matters of theft and forgery very seriously, Miss Zone."

"I imagined you would." I smile, a genuine, triumphant curve of my lips. I look right at Emily, making sure she sees the victory written all over my face.

"Anyone caught forging or stealing our property is immediately blacklisted from every establishment we own," Warren continues, his words slow and methodical. "Furthermore, they are required to pay a heavy price. A physical price. We don’t tolerate disrespect."

A thrill shoots straight down my spine. This is exactly what I wanted. I want Emily Vance dragged out of here screaming. I want Alistair Wolfe to see the news reports of his precious, pregnant wife thrown into the gutter by the local syndicate. He will divorce her before the sun sets to protect the Wolfe Empire’s stock prices.

"I am glad we are on the same page, Mr. Sinclair," I say, practically vibrating with excitement. I pull the receiver away from my ear and shove it back against Vincent Ziggler’s chest.

Vincent fumbles to catch the phone, nearly dropping it on the marble floor.

"You heard the man," I order, pointing a crimson nail directly at Vincent’s face. "The boss of the Azure Syndicate just gave you your instructions. Deal with her immediately. Quinn, make sure this manager doesn’t stall."

Quinn cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet lobby.

Vincent brings the phone back to his ear, his hands shaking so violently the plastic rattles. He looks at me, then looks at Emily.

"Mr. Sinclair," Vincent whispers, his voice cracking down the middle. "Sir, I need to inform you. The woman holding the card... Emily Vance. She isn’t just a nobody. She is Alistair Wolfe’s wife. She is the Madam of the Wolfe Empire."

EMILY VANCE POV

I watch Vincent Ziggler shrink into his expensive suit, probably terrified that the mere mention of Alistair’s name is going to get a bomb dropped on his restaurant.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight to my left leg. This entire situation is incredibly stupid. I came here to celebrate my special admission into Etland Medical University. I wanted a nice meal, a quiet afternoon to go over the floor plans for the figurine-themed bubble tea shop Zoe, Jessie, and Fiona are helping me build. Instead, I am standing in a lobby that smells like expensive butter and desperation, watching a politician’s daughter throw a temper tantrum.

Vincent hits the speakerphone button on the console, clearly too terrified to relay the message himself. He wants witnesses to whatever order Warren gives next.

"She is Alistair Wolfe’s wife, sir," Vincent repeats, the audio echoing through the speaker.

A short, quiet laugh filters through the line. It sounds distinctly like Warren Sinclair.

"Rules are rules, Vincent," Warren says over the speaker, his voice dripping with mock severity. "I don’t care whose wife she is. I don’t care if she is married to the president himself. Anyone who violates the laws of the Azure Syndicate inside my walls must be punished. Enforce the penalty."

The line clicks dead. A dial tone fills the lobby.

I stare at the phone, my jaw clenching. Warren Sinclair is an absolute bastard. He knows perfectly well who I am. He handed me that card personally. He knows I am his invited vice-leader, yet he is playing this sick game just to see how I react. He wants to force my hand. He wants me to rely on the Azure Syndicate’s power, to embrace the violence of the underground.

Naya Zone lets out a shrill shriek of laughter, clapping her hands together.

"You heard him!" Naya yells, stepping toward Vincent. "The Wolfe name doesn’t protect a thief! Get her out of my sight!"

Vincent stares at the dead phone. He looks like a man walking to the gallows. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns to the four restaurant security guards standing awkwardly near the coat check. They are large men, dressed in tailored suits, equipped with earpieces and concealed batons.

"Take her to the back," Vincent orders, his voice completely hollow. He points a trembling finger at me. "The penalty for forgery under the Syndicate code is amputation. Take her to the kitchen and cut off her thumb."

The words hang in the air.

Naya’s smile falters for a fraction of a second, her eyes widening. She wanted me humiliated, probably thrown onto the pavement. She clearly didn’t calculate that the Azure Syndicate literally maims people. But she recovers quickly, her chin lifting. She wants to see me bleed. She wants the child in my stomach to be born to a crippled mother.

The four security guards move forward in unison. Their heavy dress shoes thud against the marble.

They don’t even make it three steps.

Leo steps directly in front of me. He doesn’t adopt a fighting stance. He doesn’t raise his fists. His movement is so fast, so fluid, it registers as a single blur of motion.

The metallic slide of a weapon echoes through the lobby, sharp and deafening.

Leo stands with his feet shoulder-width apart. In his right hand, a matte black Glock 19 is raised, the barrel pointed directly at the center of Vincent Ziggler’s forehead. His finger rests lightly on the trigger.

The restaurant goes dead silent.

A waiter drops a silver tray in the main dining hall. The crash of breaking plates rings out, but nobody speaks. Nobody breathes.

Quinn freezes, his massive hands hovering near his waist. He recognizes the lethal precision in Leo’s stance. This is not a street brawler holding a gun. This is a former Special Forces operative who will put a bullet through a man’s skull without a second thought.

"Take one more step toward the Madam," Leo says. His voice is incredibly calm, a terrifying contrast to the weapon in his hand. "And I will paint the walls of this lobby with your brains."

Vincent stops breathing. His eyes cross slightly, staring down the dark, hollow barrel of the gun. The four security guards freeze instantly, their hands raising slightly in surrender. They are bouncers. They aren’t paid enough to catch a bullet from a trained killer.

Naya screams, stumbling backward. Her heel catches on the marble floor, and she collapses against the mahogany host stand, clutching her diamond necklace.

"You are insane!" Naya shrieks, her chest heaving in panic. "Quinn! Do something!"

Quinn doesn’t move a single muscle. He keeps his eyes locked on Leo’s trigger finger. He probably calculates his odds of drawing his own weapon, realizes he will be dead before his hand clears his jacket, and chooses to stay perfectly still.

I look at Leo’s broad back. He stands like an impenetrable fortress, ready to execute anyone who dares to threaten me.

"Put the gun down, Leo," I say quietly.

Leo doesn’t lower the weapon. "Madam. They threatened to mutilate you."

"I am aware," I reply, stepping around his massive frame. The smell of expensive truffles is entirely gone now, replaced by the faint, sharp scent of gun oil coming from Leo’s weapon.

I walk right up to the host stand. Vincent flinches, closing his eyes, clearly expecting Leo to pull the trigger.

I pick up the black Bordeaux 101 card from the counter and slip it back into my pocket. I lean closer to the terrified manager, keeping my voice low and steady.

"Call him back, Vincent," I say.

Vincent opens his eyes, staring at me in sheer terror. "Miss Vance... I..."

"Call him back," I repeat, my tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "And this time, tell Warren Sinclair that if he wants to play games with my fingers, he needs to come down here and try to take them himself."