Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

( WARREN )

Silence from a powerful man is usually a weapon. Right now, it just looks like a massive, pathetic cry for help.

I watch Alistair Wolfe pour another heavy measure of my best vintage red wine. He ignores my question about his sudden craving for milk tea completely. He brings the heavy crystal tumbler to his lips and swallows the expensive liquid like a man dying of thirst in a desert. The terrifying CEO of the Wolfe Empire is currently drowning in a velvet dining suite.

He looks like an absolute disaster. His tailored charcoal suit is severely wrinkled. The top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt are undone, exposing his collarbone. Deep purple shadows bruise the skin under his dark eyes. He is running on pure, unadulterated stress and alcohol.

I swirl the dark red wine in my own glass, watching the legs of the liquid slowly drip down the crystal.

"You know, your wife put on quite a show today at the restaurant," I say, keeping my tone light and conversational.

Alistair stops drinking. His broad shoulders go totally rigid. He slowly lowers the glass to the polished mahogany table, the movement stiff and mechanical.

"Naya Zone cornered her," I continue, enjoying the absolute, undivided attention I suddenly command. "Naya threw around her father’s political weight. She insulted Emily’s mother. She even slapped Leo right in the middle of the lobby."

Alistair’s head snaps up. His dark eyes are bloodshot but incredibly sharp.

"Emily did not back down for a single second," I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the white tablecloth. "She stepped right in front of a trained combat operative to protect him. She slapped Naya’s bodyguard. She struck Naya across the face. She defended her family’s honor with pure, unfiltered violence. It was a beautiful thing to witness."

( ALISTAIR )

The alcohol coats my tongue, leaving a bitter, acidic taste in the back of my throat. It does absolutely nothing to dull the vivid images forming in my mind.

I watched the security footage of that exact altercation earlier today. I saw the fierce, unyielding set of her jaw. Naya Zone insulted her deceased mother. Emily reacted with terrifying loyalty. She protected her people. She stood her ground against a powerful political dynasty without flinching or looking for an escape route. She moved with a deadly, graceful precision, her hand connecting with Naya’s cheek in a flawless arc.

The walls I built over the past three days crumble into dust. The ice surrounding my thoughts shatters completely, melting under the intense heat of the memory.

The attraction hits me like a physical blow. It is a raw, undeniable force pushing all logic out of my brain. I want her. I want the woman who formulates herbal remedies in the dark. I want the woman who strikes down her enemies on the hot pavement. I want the brilliant, stubborn girl sleeping in my bed.

The guilt crashes into me a fraction of a second later.

Kiki. The woman in the freezing mud of the Blackwood Gorge. The phantom who dragged my bleeding, paralyzed body into the tall grass while foreign mercenaries hunted me. I promised my devotion to her. I vowed to find her and repay the life debt I owe.

The conflict tears my mind in two different directions, splitting my focus. The liquor loosens my tongue. It dissolves my rigid discipline and strips away my carefully constructed armor. The words spill out before I can stop them.

"Warren," I say, the syllables heavy and clumsy. "I think I have fallen for another woman."

( WARREN )

I raise a dark eyebrow. My lips curve into a knowing, highly irritating smile. I take a slow sip of my wine, savoring the absolute absurdity of the situation.

"Emily," I say simply.

Panic spikes in his dark eyes. Admitting the truth aloud makes it real. Admitting it betrays the ghost he has chased for three long years. He is a man who operates on absolute control, and he just confessed to losing it entirely.

"No," Alistair says quickly, shaking his head. He grips the edge of the table. "It is not her."

"Right," I drawl. I sound entirely unconvinced, because I am entirely unconvinced. He is lying, and he is doing a terrible job at it.

I reach toward a small serving cart resting near the red velvet wall. I pick up a cheap, white cardboard box. Grease stains the bottom corner of the thin paper. The sweet scent of baked custard and sugar wafts from the packaging. I set it directly in front of him on the crisp white tablecloth.

Alistair stares at the flimsy packaging. It looks incredibly out of place next to the crystal decanters and the heavy silver cutlery.

"What is that?" he asks, his voice dropping into a dangerous, suspicious register.

"Egg tarts and glazed scones," I answer smoothly, tapping the top of the box with my index finger. "From a bakery down the street. Emily brought them to me a few hours ago."

( ALISTAIR )

The oxygen vanishes from my lungs.

I stare at the box. The cheap cardboard sits on the table, mocking me. Emily came to Bordeaux 101. She brought him baked goods. She sat in this exact room with the billionaire head of the Azure Syndicate while I tore my corporate headquarters apart.

"Why was she here?" I demand. My fingers curl into tight fists. My short fingernails bite sharply into my palms, sending small spikes of pain up my forearms. "Why is my wife visiting you in private?"

Warren leans back in his plush leather armchair. He steeples his fingers under his chin. He looks entirely too comfortable. He enjoys playing games with information, and he knows he holds all the winning cards tonight.

"We had a very productive conversation," Warren says, his tone perfectly conversational. "She is a fascinating creature, Alistair. I actually like her. I like her a lot."

The muscles in my jaw lock tight. The grinding of my teeth sounds excessively loud in my own ears. A violent, possessive rage boils in my bloodstream. "Explain yourself."

"It is simple," Warren replies. His dark eyes lock onto mine, dropping the playful facade entirely. "I offered her a position. She declined the official syndicate role, but we reached a different kind of understanding. She likes me too, Alistair. She appreciates a man who validates her efforts instead of throwing them in the garbage."

The words hit me with the force of a speeding vehicle.

He knows about the essential oil. She told him about the handmade sleep remedy. She shared the intimate, humiliating details of our marital cold war with another man. She sat at this table and exposed my lies to a syndicate boss.

"We made an arrangement," Warren continues, delivering the words with surgical, devastating precision. "You only want an heir. You locked her into a temporary contract. Once she delivers the child, your agreement terminates. She leaves the Wolfe Estate. And when she does, she is coming to me."

The world tilts violently on its axis. The red velvet walls of the private suite close in, suffocating me. The air grows incredibly thin.

I maintain a perfectly blank expression. I do not blink. I do not shout. I keep my posture rigidly controlled. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a visible breakdown.

But underneath the tailored wool of my suit, my internal architecture completely collapses.

She is leaving me. She planned her exit strategy, and she chose the man sitting across the table.

The pain is absolute. It radiates through my bones, a freezing, corrosive agony that defies all logic. I built a massive fortress to keep her at a distance. I threw away her gifts to protect my own pride. I pushed her away, and she simply walked into the arms of a man who appreciates her. The loss threatens to tear me apart.

I pick up the heavy wine bottle. I pour another glass, the dark liquid splashing wildly over the rim and staining the tablecloth. I will not let Warren see the devastation. I will swallow the agony and drown it in alcohol until I cannot feel anything at all.