For four years, I was the pampered songbird of Alexander Whitmore, the heir to the Whitmore dynasty. Then I got pregnant. When I inquired if he liked children, he replied coldly: "No. I despise them." The next thing he knew, he was on a plane, returning home with his beloved ex, who was also pregnant. My heart turned to ice. Without hesitation, I faked my death and fled with our unborn child. Raising a child was expensive. To make a living, I launched an online parenting blog. With one slide, I accidently disclosed my face. That same night, individuals dressed in black encircled my apartment building. Even the rear alley was shut. Alexander held me to the wall, his voice dangerously low. "Eleanor, are you seriously calling yourself a grieving widow online?" My kid peered out from behind the door. "Mister, my father is not deceased. "He's a terrible, irresponsible scumbag." Me: ………… Please shut up, sweetheart!