His Disposable Wife Left With His Baby

ELARA The pregnancy test report sat on the marble bathroom counter, its corners already beginning to curl from the steam of my earlier shower. 7 weeks pregnant This was a huge mistake. I knew it the moment I agreed to this marriage. We'd stood in front of a judge on a Tuesday afternoon, no guests, no flowers, no kiss. Just signatures and a handshake with his lawyer afterward. Kieran had slid the platinum band onto my finger and told me the terms in the car ride home: attend functions when required, maintain appearances, no scandals. And no pregnancy. That was clause seven, subsection B, right between "discretion regarding the nature of this arrangement" and "termination conditions." To Kieran, I'm a solution to a board problem. His grandfather's will required him to be married before assuming full control of Ashcroft Group. So he needed a wife who understood this was business, nothing more. I walked to the window and watched snow begin to fall over Manhattan. Fat, wet flakes that caught the light from the buildings across the river before melting against the glass. My breath fogged the pane. I pressed my palm flat against it, feeling the cold seep through, numbing my skin. My phone buzzed, fracturing my reflection in the window. Not a call. A news alert from one of those gossip sites Anya's always reading. I almost dismissed it, but the preview text caught my eye: BREAKING: Kieran Ashcroft spotted at JFK private terminal— The photo loaded slowly, each pixel rendering like a tiny knife. I'd know that silhouette anywhere. A man in a dark wool coat, hand resting on a woman's lower back, protecting. Kieran. The woman's face was turned away, but her hair caught the harsh airport lighting. Honey-blonde, falling in waves past her shoulders. My vision tunneled. The phone screen blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. The comments were already exploding—hundreds of people speculating, dissecting, celebrating. Who is she? The mystery woman! Ashcroft's secret girlfriend? I scrolled, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. Then I saw a reply, half-hidden in the thread: That's Camilla Monroe. His ex. She's back in New York. Camilla. My stepsister. Kieran's first love. His only love. I didn't realize I'd dropped my phone until I heard it hit the carpet with a muffled thud. The snow was falling harder now, thick enough to blur the cityscape into abstract shapes. Then I heard it. The low, unmistakable growl of an engine. That specific sound—Kieran's Aston Martin, the one I'd know anywhere. My head snapped toward the window. He's here? My heart lurched, that stupid traitor. Hope and dread tangled together, indistinguishable. He came home. The news was wrong, or maybe he left, or maybe— I wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand, smearing tears across my cheeks. The bedroom door opened. The sudden brightness felt like violence. I blinked, eyes adjusting, and there he was. Snow still melting on the shoulders of his charcoal coat. Black hair slightly damp, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger than twenty-nine. Those amber eyes. Six-foot-two of controlled power and expensive tailoring. I'd only ever seen real sorrow in those eyes once, the day after Camilla left. He looked at me by the window, then away, like I was part of the furniture. Started unbuttoning his coat. "You're still up," he said. Not a question. Just an observation. I tried to speak, but my throat had closed. Finally managed, "I couldn't sleep." He turned then, and I smelled it. Whiskey. Faint but unmistakable. "You've been drinking." "One drink." He crossed the room toward me. "Is that a problem?" "No, I just—" I stopped. He was close now. Close enough that I could see the melted snow on his shoulders starting to darken the fabric. "You've been crying." His hand came up, thumb grazing my cheekbone. "Why?" I pulled back slightly. "I'm fine. Just tired." He studied me for another moment. Then his hand moved to the back of my neck. "Come here," he said, low. He kissed me. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him. I felt the cold from his coat seeping through my thin nightgown, the hard line of his body, the barely restrained force in the way he held me. My hands were on his chest. "Kieran—" I started, but he bit my lower lip, not hard, just enough to make me stop talking. "Focus," he murmured against my mouth. His mouth moved to my neck. "You changed your perfume," he said. "I didn't—I just showered." He wasn't listening. His hands were already working at his collar, eyes dark and distant. He was looking at me, but not seeing me. His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide. "No." His hands stilled. "No?" "I don't want this tonight." I put my hand on his chest. He went very still. The shift was immediate, like watching a door close. His hands dropped away from me. "All right." His voice was neutral now. Perfectly controlled. He took a step back, and the space between us felt vast. He didn't look hurt or disappointed. He looked nothing. He adjusted his collar. Smoothed down his shirt. Erasing the evidence that he'd touched me at all. I was a vending machine that didn't dispense, and he'd simply moved on. He watched me for a long moment, and I couldn't read his expression. Then, "You should get some sleep, Elara. You look exhausted." "Were you..." I swallowed. "Where were you tonight?" I'd never questioned him before. Not once in three years. His eyes narrowed, and I saw it. Silence. It stretched between us like a chasm. "Remember your place," he said finally, and the words landed like a slap. He turned and walked into the bathroom without looking back. I stood there, still smelling his cologne in the air between us. I'd known from the very beginning. To him, I was nothing more than a wife for the night. The shower started, water hitting tile in a steady rhythm. I moved to the bed and sat on the edge, my legs suddenly unable to support me. His phone vibrated on the nightstand, the sound harsh in the quiet room. Once. Twice. Three times. I turned my head and looked at the screen. Camilla. The name glowed in the dark.