Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

( EMILY )

"Call him back," I command.

Vincent Ziggler shakes so violently the heavy plastic receiver rattles against the mahogany stand. He punches the encrypted extension into the keypad with a trembling index finger. The dial tone rings out, sharp and loud in the quiet lobby.

Warren Sinclair answers on the first ring. I speak before Vincent can utter a single syllable.

"Mr. Sinclair," I say into the speakerphone. "If this keeps up, someone is going to get killed in your lobby. My bodyguard has a Glock pointed directly at your manager’s forehead."

A low, rich chuckle rumbles through the speaker. The sound completely shatters the suffocating tension in the room.

"Emily," Warren replies. His voice sounds incredibly warm, dripping with amusement. "You know perfectly well I would never let anyone hurt you. I just wanted to see if you would actually let them drag you into the kitchen. You usually prefer to handle things yourself."

I let out a slow exhale, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Warren is infuriating. He orchestrated this entire panic just to test my limits, treating a lethal standoff like a casual parlor game.

Naya Zone’s jaw hangs slack. The smug superiority melts off her face, leaving a pale, chalky mask of absolute shock. She stares at the phone, then looks at me, her wide eyes blinking rapidly. Her massive bodyguard, Quinn, finally lowers his hands, stepping backward in a silent, cautious retreat.

"Tell your manager to stand down," I say.

"Vincent," Warren says. The warmth vanishes from his tone instantly, replaced by the freezing, metallic edge of an underworld boss. "Miss Vance is a guest of honor at the Azure Syndicate. More importantly, she is a personal friend of mine. If anyone disrespects her in my establishment again, I will hold you personally responsible."

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair!" Vincent squeaks. He practically collapses against the host stand, swiping a fresh sheet of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Understood completely, sir."

"Emily, since you’re already at Bordeaux 101, let me treat you to dinner," Warren continues, slipping effortlessly back into his charming persona. "The chef has a fresh shipment of Beluga caviar. Consider it an apology for the misunderstanding."

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. "No thank you, Warren. I don’t want to accept a favor for nothing. I prefer paying my own way. We can chat another time."

"Always so independent," Warren muses. "Enjoy your meal, Emily."

The line goes dead.

I slip my phone into my pocket and gesture for Leo to lower his weapon. Leo smoothly holsters the firearm beneath his tailored suit jacket, his broad shoulders relaxing a fraction. The sharp metallic clack of the gun sliding into place makes Vincent flinch hard.

"Miss Vance," Vincent stammers, stepping out from behind the stand. He bows so low his nose nearly grazes his knees. "I’m profoundly sorry. The private suite is yours. Please, allow me to escort you."

"Wait a minute!" Naya shrieks.

Her voice pitches up. She stomps her stiletto heel onto the marble floor. Her chest heaves under her silk designer dress, making her diamond necklace rattle against her collarbone.

"You can’t be serious," Naya snaps. "She’s a fraud! What kind of relationship does she have with Warren Sinclair? How do you know him?"

She points a shaking, crimson-painted fingernail directly at my face.

I look at her. I observe the frantic, desperate anger warping her features. She fully expected to watch me bleed on this marble floor, and instead, she has to swallow the reality that her political connections mean absolutely nothing in this room.

I don’t owe her a single syllable of explanation.

"Let’s go, Leo," I say, completely ignoring the screaming woman. "I need to pick up Dr. Harrison from the university before we eat."

I turn my back on Naya and walk toward the grand glass doors of the restaurant.

The doors slide open. The bright afternoon sun glares off the hoods of passing sedans. I pull my sunglasses from my purse and slide them over my eyes to block the blinding light.

"Stop walking away from me!"

The frantic clicking of stilettos echoes loudly on the concrete sidewalk. I stop and turn around. Naya storms out of the restaurant, her face flushed a blotchy, furious red. Quinn trails a few paces behind her, looking significantly less eager to engage now that he knows Leo is carrying a loaded weapon.

"Are you deaf?" Naya demands. She stops two feet away from me, crossing her arms. She looks me up and down with an expression of pure, concentrated disgust. "I asked you a question. How do you know Warren Sinclair?"

I adjust my purse on my shoulder. "That’s absolutely none of your business, Naya."

"Oh, please." Naya scoffs, rolling her eyes toward the hazy city sky. She takes a step closer, invading my personal space. The cloying scent of her heavy floral perfume mixes sickeningly with the exhaust fumes from the street. "It’s painfully obvious. You’re sleeping with him. That’s the only way a cheap, classless woman like you gets a Black Tier card. You jump from bed to bed, trading favors for plastic."

Leo shifts his weight, stepping forward to intervene. I raise my hand, stopping him in his tracks. I can handle a spoiled socialite without my bodyguard fighting my battles.

"You have a very active imagination," I reply calmly.

My indifference only fuels her rage. Naya’s nostrils flare. She leans in closer, her voice dropping into a vicious, venomous hiss.

"Don’t act so high and mighty," Naya spits. "Everyone knows how you trapped Alistair Wolfe. You crawled into his bed and got yourself knocked up. You forced him to marry you by waving a bastard child in his face. You’re nothing but a gold-digging whore who uses her body to steal things that belong to better people."

The hot summer air turns into solid ice against my skin.

She crossed the line. She insulted my child. She insulted my marriage, treating me like a piece of trash she can scrape off her expensive shoe.

I don’t think about my actions. The response is purely instinctual.

I swing my right hand backward and bring it forward with every ounce of strength I possess.

My palm connects directly with Naya’s left cheek. The sharp, cracking sound of skin slapping against skin echoes down the busy sidewalk. The impact sends a stinging heat racing straight up my arm, vibrating into my shoulder.

Naya’s head snaps to the side. Her perfectly styled hair whips across her face, sticking to her lip gloss. The force of the blow knocks her off balance, and she stumbles to the side, her high heel twisting awkwardly on the uneven concrete.

She touches her cheek. A bright, angry red handprint blossoms across her pale skin. Her eyes go wide with absolute shock, filling instantly with tears of pain and humiliation. She stares at me, her mouth hanging open.

"You..." she whispers, her voice shaking violently. "You hit me."

"So what if I hit you?" I keep my voice dead level, staring right into her terrified eyes. "Go home and tattle to your dad. Tell the esteemed Congressman Zone that you threw a tantrum on the street and got exactly what you deserved."

The shock morphs into explosive fury. Naya lets out a scream. She raises her arm, curling her fingers into claws, and swings at my face.

I don’t flinch. I reach up and catch her wrist mid-air. Her arm is thin, lacking any real muscle. I squeeze my fingers around her delicate bones, applying enough pressure to make her gasp in pain.

"Let go of me!" she shrieks, trying to yank her arm away.

I hold her firmly in place. I lean in, locking my eyes onto hers.

"Don’t ever think I’m too afraid to fight back, Naya." I speak slowly, ensuring every word lands with the weight of a physical blow. "You rely on your father’s political title to bully people. Take that title away, and you have absolutely nothing. Come near me or my family again, and a slap will be the least of your problems."

I release my grip, shoving her backward. Naya stumbles, falling hard onto her backside on the hot concrete sidewalk. Her designer dress rides up her thighs, exposing her in front of passing pedestrians.

Quinn rushes forward to help her up, his face pale and sweating. Naya scrambles to her feet, her chest heaving. Tears of pure rage spill over her eyelashes.

"Just you wait, Emily Vance!" she screams, pointing a shaking finger at me while Quinn pulls her toward her parked luxury sedan. "You’re going to pay for this! I will destroy you!"

I watch them drive away, the tires squealing harshly against the asphalt. The adrenaline slowly drains from my system, leaving a dull ache in the center of my right palm.

I turn back to Leo. He stands perfectly still, a small, approving smirk playing on his lips.

"Get the car, Leo," I say, rubbing my stinging hand. "We’re going to be late for Dr. Harrison."

The drive to Etland Medical University takes twenty minutes. The campus sits on the eastern edge of Asuir City, a sprawling collection of historic red-brick buildings and modern glass research facilities. The scent of cut grass and old paper hangs heavy in the humid air as we pull up to the main administrative building.

I step out of the car, smoothing the wrinkles from my slacks. Dr. Harrison stands at the bottom of the wide concrete steps, clutching a thick leather briefcase to his chest. He is a tall, distinguished man in his late fifties, wearing a tweed jacket despite the sweltering summer heat. His silver hair is neatly combed, and thick, wire-rimmed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

"Emily," Dr. Harrison says, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as I approach. He extends his hand. "It’s wonderful to see you again. Congratulations on your official admission."

"Thank you, Dr. Harrison." I shake his hand, feeling the rough calluses of a man who has spent decades working in laboratories. "I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today."

"Nonsense. I’m thrilled to have you joining us in the fall." He adjusts his glasses, gesturing toward Leo, who stands a few paces behind me. "I see you brought your security. Very prudent, considering your current research profile. Shall we head inside? The air conditioning in my office is much more forgiving than this sun."

We walk up the steps and push through the heavy oak doors. The interior of the administrative building smells like lemon floor wax and stale coffee. We navigate a labyrinth of quiet hallways until we reach his office at the end of the corridor.

Dr. Harrison sets his briefcase on his cluttered wooden desk and motions for me to sit in a worn leather armchair. He takes the seat across from me, folding his hands in his lap.

"I reviewed your preliminary research proposals, Emily," he says, his tone shifting into a serious, academic register. "Your work on cardiovascular regeneration is nothing short of groundbreaking. SN1818 is going to change the world. You possess a rare, intuitive grasp of molecular biology that we usually only see in seasoned veterans."

"I still have a lot to learn," I reply honestly, leaning back into the comfortable leather. "That’s why I wanted to enroll here. I need access to proper facilities and mentorship to push the formula further."

"You’ll have all of that," Dr. Harrison assures me. He leans forward, lowering his voice slightly. "But I actually asked to meet you today for another reason. Aside from delivering your admission paperwork."

He unlocks his briefcase and pulls out a glossy, silver-embossed folder. He slides it across the desk toward me.

"Etland Pharmaceutical Research Institute is launching a new initiative," he explains, tapping his index finger on the thick cover. "It’s a highly classified recruitment drive. We’re looking for exceptional talent to lead a specialized biochemistry division."

I pick up the folder. The heavy cardstock feels cool against my fingertips. I open it, scanning the dense blocks of text outlining massive funding grants, state-of-the-art laboratory access, and partnerships with the military.

"I don’t understand," I say, looking up at him. "I’m just an incoming freshman. Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you aren’t just a freshman, Emily." Dr. Harrison smiles, a glint of genuine excitement in his eyes. "You’re the creator of SN1818. You operate at a level far beyond our graduate students. The board of directors at the institute reviewed your file. They want you to apply for the lead researcher position."

My pulse quickens. A lead researcher position at Etland Pharmaceutical Research Institute. It’s a role that usually requires a doctorate and twenty years of field experience. It comes with immense power, unlimited resources, and the kind of influence that rivals the major corporate empires of Asuir City.

"This is an enormous opportunity," I say, tracing the silver lettering on the folder. "But it will require a massive time commitment. I’m currently finalizing a partnership with Sterling Pharmaceuticals, and I have my own startup to manage."

"The institute operates independently," Dr. Harrison counters. "You’d have complete autonomy over your hours and your team. We only care about the results. And quite frankly, Emily, we need your mind. The medical advancements you could achieve with our resources would be staggering."

I close the folder. The promise of power and independence resonates through the thick paper. This is exactly what I need. I need to build a fortress of my own, a stronghold of influence where people like Naya Zone and Silas Hunt can never touch me. I need to be strong enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Alistair Wolfe, not just hide behind his shadow.

"I’ll read through the details," I tell Dr. Harrison, tucking the folder into my purse. "But you can tell the board I’m highly interested."

Dr. Harrison beams, clapping his hands together. "Excellent. Absolutely excellent. Now, I believe you promised to buy an old academic a decent lunch?"

"I did," I laugh, standing up from the armchair. "And I know a French bistro that has a private room waiting for us."