carrying the billionaire secrets

Chapter 2 - Two Blue Lines

Three months later the stick turns blue.

I sit on the closed lid of the toilet in the tiny bathroom above the bakery and stare at the second line until my eyes burn. The first test could have been a mistake. The second one is not.

Pregnant.

I press a hand flat against my still-flat stomach and try to remember how to breathe. The night comes back in pieces. The mask. The suite. The way he felt inside me. The way I left before dawn.

I never got his name. He never got mine. That was the point.

Now there is a baby.

Downstairs the oven timer beeps. I force myself to stand, wash my face, and go back to work. The morning rush still comes whether my life is falling apart or not. I frost cupcakes with hands that will not stop shaking. I smile at regulars. I count the cash drawer at the end of the day and know it is not enough.

The bank letter is still in the drawer under the register. Final notice. Fourteen days.

That night I sit at the small table in the apartment above the shop with a notebook and every number I can find. Bakery revenue. Loan payments. Medical bills still coming for my father’s last hospital stay. Rent. Utilities. The cost of prenatal care I do not have insurance for.

The numbers do not add up. They never do.

I close the notebook and rest my forehead on the table. The baby is the size of a bean right now. I read that online between batches of sourdough. A bean that is already changing everything.

I need money. Fast. More than the bakery can make even if every seat fills every day for the next year.

My phone buzzes. An email from an address I do not recognize.

Subject line: Temporary Marriage Contract – Confidential Opportunity.

I almost delete it. Then I open it because I am desperate enough to read anything that promises cash.

The message is short and formal. An investor is seeking a temporary legal spouse for tax and residency reasons related to a large acquisition. The arrangement will last twelve months. Compensation is listed at the bottom.

The number makes my heart stop.

It is enough to clear every debt, keep the bakery open, and still have money left for the baby.

I read the email three times. Then I reply.

I do not know yet that the investor is the same man who made me come three times behind a black mask.

I only know that in fourteen days the bakery dies unless something changes.

And I am willing to change almost anything to keep it alive.