Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

( ALISTAIR )

The concept of sacrificing my life for a woman on a sinking ship feels entirely ridiculous.

I stare at Warren Sinclair across the polished mahogany table of the private suite in Bordeaux 101. He sits perfectly relaxed in his tailored midnight-blue suit. He swirls a fresh glass of heavy red wine, waiting for me to answer his absurd hypothetical scenario. He genuinely wants to know if I would give up a floating piece of wooden debris for a woman I met a few days prior.

"I’m not Jack Dawson," I reply. My voice sounds harsh, scraping painfully against my dry throat. "I don’t make operational decisions based on temporary, adrenaline-fueled delusions. I assess the tactical variables, and I survive the freezing water."

I pick up my crystal glass, bringing the rim to my mouth. The dark red vintage burns a hot, acidic trail down my esophagus. It sits heavy and warm in my completely empty stomach. The sharp, bitter taste of the tannins coats my tongue.

I am a man of logic. I build global supply chains and engineer next-generation battery technology. I do not romanticize catastrophic maritime disasters, and I absolutely refuse to entertain the notion of dying for a fleeting, cinematic romance.

I set the glass down on the crisp white tablecloth. The crystal clinks sharply against the wood. The quiet luxury of the restaurant suite feels incredibly suffocating. The lack of sleep over the past forty-eight hours creates a tight, throbbing pressure behind my eyes. The edges of the room blur slightly, my focus eroding under the combined weight of extreme exhaustion and expensive alcohol.

"You’re avoiding the core of the question, Alistair," Warren says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.

I ignore him, reaching for the open bottle of wine to refill my own glass.

( WARREN )

Alistair Wolfe possesses the romantic sensibility of a solid concrete wall.

I watch him grip the neck of the wine bottle. His knuckles turn a stark, bone-white against the dark green glass. We grew up in the exact same elite social circles of Asuir City. I have known him since we were children attending rigid, miserable private academies. Alistair was always aloof, reclusive, and entirely focused on building his corporate empire. He never entertained frivolous relationships. He never attended the debutante galas or chased the wealthy heiresses desperate for a fraction of his attention. He views human affection as a severe tactical vulnerability.

Yet, he is currently sitting in my private dining room, drinking himself into an early grave over a woman.

"You missed the entire point of the film, Alistair," I say quietly, watching him down another generous measure of the heavy Bordeaux red. "Jack and Rose knew each other for a mere handful of days. They formed an absolute, unbreakable bond in the middle of a freezing, chaotic disaster. They were willing to sacrifice themselves for a total stranger. It is the ultimate display of devotion."

Alistair scoffs loudly. He drags a hand through his dark hair, entirely ruining his usually flawless, disciplined grooming. The top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt remain unfastened. Deep, dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes. He looks like a man standing on the very edge of a towering cliff, completely ready to step off into the abyss.

"It is a fictional story designed to sell movie tickets," Alistair mutters, resting his forehead against the heel of his palm.

"Is it?" I ask, allowing a small, knowing smile to touch my lips. "Because from my perspective, you made the exact same choice three years ago."

Alistair goes perfectly still. The slow, rhythmic rising of his chest pauses entirely.

"You fell in love with a woman whose name you don’t even know," I continue, keeping my voice smooth and deliberate. "You don’t know her face. You don’t know her age or her background. You were blinded and paralyzed in a freezing forest, and she saved your life. You formed an unbreakable bond in the middle of a chaotic disaster. Your dedication to a nameless, faceless phantom demonstrates a deep, profound devotion to love. You are Jack Dawson, my friend. You just wear a much more expensive suit."

I watch the words hit him. The comparison is flawless, and it cuts straight through his icy corporate armor.

He requires a chemical intervention to lower his defenses completely. I notice the slight tremor in his hands. I see the glassy, unfocused quality clouding his normally sharp eyes. He hasn’t slept in several days. He hasn’t eaten a single bite of solid food since he walked through the heavy oak doors of this suite. His body is running on raw, unadulterated stress and caffeine.

The alcohol is hitting his bloodstream with absolutely zero resistance. He is getting intoxicated with terrifying speed.

I don’t stop him. I reach out and grab the open bottle of wine, pouring the remaining dark red liquid into his empty tumbler. I want him drunk. I want the rigid, impenetrable CEO of the Wolfe Empire to finally drop his walls and open up about the absolute chaos tearing his life apart.

( ALISTAIR )

The heavy wine sloshes over the rim of my glass, staining the pristine white tablecloth with a bright, violent splash of red.

I stare at the liquid. Warren speaks about devotion. He speaks about the phantom in the woods. I close my eyes, trying desperately to summon the memory of the Blackridge Mountains. I try to picture the freezing, thick mud. I try to recall the agonizing, paralyzing fire of the M-209 neurotoxin completely shutting down my nervous system. I try to remember the woman who dragged my bleeding body into the tall grass to hide me from the foreign mercenaries.

I try to focus entirely on Kiki.

But the image in my mind shatters, breaking apart into a thousand useless fragments.

Another face invades the dark space behind my eyelids.

I see dark, defiant eyes. I see a woman wearing plain beige slacks and a simple white blouse. I see Emily standing on the hot pavement, striking a politician’s daughter across the cheek with flawless, devastating precision to protect my name. I see her returning my custom leather combat gloves, placing them perfectly in the center of the velvet sofa because she refused to accept a gift from a liar. I see the small brown glass bottle of sleep-aid essential oil sitting at the very bottom of the steel wastebasket in our suite.

The realization hits my chest with the crushing, unstoppable force of a runaway freight train.

I don’t want the ghost in the woods. I want the fierce, unyielding woman currently sleeping in my bed. I want the woman who formulates herbal remedies to cure my insomnia. I want the woman who slaps her enemies and builds independent businesses.

I actually developed feelings for my contract wife.

The panic is immediate and entirely overwhelming. The carefully constructed parameters of my entire existence collapse in a single, terrifying second. I established a rigid, emotionless agreement to secure an heir. I promised myself I would remain entirely devoted to the memory of the savior who pulled me out of the Blackwood Gorge. Falling in love with Emily violates every single rule I created to maintain my control.

My heart thunders against my ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm threatening to break my ribcage. The temperature in the private suite skyrockets. I feel a hot, suffocating sweat break out across the back of my neck.

I grab the crystal tumbler. I throw my head back and down the entire glass of heavy red wine, desperate to drown the terrifying revelation in a flood of alcohol. The liquid burns, dulling the sharp, agonizing edge of the panic, but the image of Emily’s face refuses to fade.

It makes me incredibly, violently agitated. I pour another glass, my hands shaking so badly the bottle clatters loudly against the crystal rim. I drink again. I need the noise in my head to stop. I need the suffocating weight of this new reality to disappear.

( WARREN )

The big bad wolf is entirely, hopelessly lost.

I lean back into my plush leather armchair, steepling my fingers under my chin. I watch Alistair consume lethal amounts of expensive vintage wine. His rigid posture completely collapses. He slumps forward, resting his heavy head in his hands. His broad shoulders rise and fall with slow, uneven breaths. The terrifying, untouchable CEO is reduced to a messy, intoxicated disaster.

I wait for the confession. I wait for him to pour his heart out, to complain about the cold war in his master bedroom, or to confess his unrequited love for the phantom in the woods.

Alistair lifts his head. His dark eyes are completely glazed over. A stray lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, sticking to the damp skin. He looks directly at me, his expression a mixture of profound misery and absolute determination.

"Warren," Alistair slurs heavily. His words drag together, thick and clumsy.

"I’m listening, my friend," I say softly, leaning forward to catch the emotional breakthrough.

"Warren," Alistair repeats, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. "I want some milk tea."

The silence in the private dining suite stretches for a long, absurd ten seconds.

I blink. I stare at the most dangerous corporate predator in Asuir City. I wait for the punchline. I wait for him to clarify the statement.

"Milk tea," I say slowly, testing the words on my tongue. "You want a sugary beverage filled with tapioca pearls. Right now."

"Yes," Alistair mutters, dropping his head back down onto his folded arms. "I want it. I need it."

A sudden, sharp memory flashes through my mind.

Just a few hours ago, Emily Vance sat in the exact same chair Alistair currently occupies. She looked at me with those cold, pragmatic eyes and explained the dynamics of her broken marriage. She told me about the handmade milk tea she crafted specifically for him, and how he took that carefully formulated peace offering and threw it directly into the garbage can.

The pieces snap together with brilliant, hilarious clarity.

Alistair isn’t just drunk. He is completely, hopelessly lovesick. He threw her gift away in a fit of stubborn pride, and now his intoxicated brain is desperately craving the exact item he rejected. He wants her care. He wants her attention.

A wide, genuine grin spreads across my face. I cannot let this opportunity pass.

I pull my encrypted mobile phone from the interior pocket of my suit jacket. I open my messaging application and navigate to Emily’s contact file.

Emily, I type, my thumbs flying across the digital keyboard. Your husband is currently intoxicated inside my private suite. He is demanding milk tea. Where exactly did you purchase the beverage he threw in the trash earlier this week?

I hit send. The small green checkmark appears instantly. I wait, watching Alistair groan softly against the polished mahogany wood.

My phone vibrates a minute later.

Emily: I didn’t purchase it. I formulated the recipe myself. I blended it in the kitchen at the estate.

I stare at the screen. Of course she made it herself. The woman is a terrifying genius who synthesizes cardiovascular drugs in basements. Formulating a custom beverage is child’s play for her.

Warren: He is entirely inconsolable. I cannot replicate your custom recipe. Provide the name of a high-end commercial alternative in the city before he destroys my dining room.

Another minute passes.

Emily: There is a premium artisan tea shop on Fifth Avenue called The Jade Leaf. Order the roasted oolong blend with half sugar. Do not let him drink anything excessively sweet on an empty stomach.

I smile, locking my phone and slipping it back into my pocket. Even while she is actively engaged in a marital cold war, she still dictates dietary instructions to protect his health.

I ring the small silver bell resting in the center of the table.

The heavy oak door opens instantly. Vincent Ziggler steps into the room, bowing deeply. He looks nervously at Alistair’s slumped form.

"Vincent," I say smoothly, gesturing toward the door. "Dispatch a courier to The Jade Leaf on Fifth Avenue immediately. Purchase their finest roasted oolong milk tea, half sugar. Have it delivered to this suite with absolute haste."

"Milk tea, sir?" Vincent asks, his voice cracking slightly in confusion.

"Do not question the order, Vincent," I reply, my grin widening into a sharp, predatory display of amusement. "Mr. Wolfe has very specific cravings tonight. And we are going to ensure he gets exactly what he wants."