MARRIED TO THE MAN WHO DENIED ME

CHAPTER THREE — THE DENIAL

(Jordan's POV)

I’ve dealt with chaos before. Boardroom wars, investors who’d sell their souls for half my company, tabloids twisting every move I make. But nothing. Nothing has ever hit me like those two words.

“I’m pregnant.”

Even now, hours later, they echo through my head, a loop I can’t pause or mute, like a song stuck in a broken record.

I pace my office. The tie around my neck is loose, the city lights slicing through the glass walls like silent witnesses. Chloe hovers at the door, the way assistants do when they know something is wrong but aren’t sure how much they’re allowed to see.

“Sir, should I—”

“No.” I cut her off, sharper than I mean to. “No interruptions. Just… go.”

She hesitates, nods, and leaves. The click of the door is deafening in the sudden quiet.

Finally, silence.

I sink into my chair, pressing my fingers into my temples as if I could physically push the words out of my mind. Cassandra’s face haunts me — the tremor in her voice, the way her hands shook as though they might betray her fear. God, I wish she was lying.

Because if she isn’t… then I’ve screwed up more than I ever imagined.

I tell myself it can’t be true. It’s impossible. We barely knew each other. One night. One mistake. A night blurred with rain, whiskey, exhaustion, grief… and yet, now it is real.

I try to focus on the report in front of me, a folder of numbers and charts. Profit margins, expansion deals, quarterly forecasts. But the words blur. They mean nothing. All I can see is her.

The way she said my name. The way her eyes searched mine, both terrified and expecting. The rain that slicked the streets that night. Her vulnerability. Her quiet bravery.

I slam the pen down. Hard. The echo of it against the desk matches the echo in my head.

What the hell is wrong with me?

This isn’t who I am. I don’t get distracted. I don’t let feelings complicate my life. People call me ice. Maybe they’re right. Emotions are liabilities. Weakness is dangerous. That’s why I built walls so high they could hold up skyscrapers. That’s why I swore I’d never fall into the same trap my father did — falling in love, trusting someone, and losing everything.

Never again.

The intercom buzzes.

“Sir, Tessa’s here. She says it’s urgent.”

Of course she is.

I mutter, “Send her in,” though part of me hopes the universe might defy me.

The door swings open. Tessa glides in like she owns the space, flawless, red lipstick, designer curves, every inch a reminder of why we were engaged and why it ended. She doesn’t even pretend to care.

“I heard something interesting,” she says, perching on the edge of my desk. “A girl came here today. Pretty. Nervous. Called your name… too familiarly.”

I keep my expression flat. “You’ve been spying again.”

“Spying?” she smirks. “Curiosity. So, who is she?”

“No one,” I say.

Her smile sharpens. “You don’t let anyone into your office. What does she want?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

She tilts her head, calculating. “She looked upset. Pregnant, maybe?”

My jaw tightens. “Leave it alone, Tessa.”

“Hmm.” Her tone is light, but the glance in her eyes is razor-sharp. “Secrets have a way of destroying men like you, Jordan.”

“Out,” I snap, standing.

For a heartbeat, her mask cracks — a flash of anger behind the practiced sweetness. Then she smooths her skirt, walks to the door.

“Be careful, Jordan,” she murmurs before leaving. “Even the strongest men fall when the truth comes knocking.”

And just like that, I feel it — a prickling unease, something I haven’t felt in years. Fear.

Night comes. Sleep doesn’t. I try to bury myself in work — numbers, meetings, spreadsheets — anything to drown the image of her face from my mind. But when the city finally quiets, when the elevators stop, the neon dies down, and the taxis pause at the lights… my thoughts are all hers.

Cassandra.

The way she looked at me when I told her to leave, like she expected nothing less from me. Like she wasn’t asking, pleading, or manipulating. She just… was. And the honesty in that look shreds something inside me I didn’t know I had.

She didn’t come for money. I can tell. There’s no angle, no scheme, no calculation in her eyes. Only hurt. And maybe… hope.

Hope. That’s the part that makes it worse.

If what she said is true, then there’s a child. My child.

The thought lands like a punch, knocking the air out of me. I don’t even know what kind of father I’d be. My own was distant. Angry. Always chasing the next deal. And I… I can barely imagine slowing down long enough to be something more than a businessman, a brand, a name.

And that’s why I can’t. I can’t let this become real. Love, family… they make you weak. Weakness is a luxury I don’t have. Not in this city. Not with Damian waiting for a single misstep to ruin me.

So I do what I always do. I build walls.

Morning comes. Chloe steps into my office, quiet, efficient, like always. She places a folder on my desk but hesitates at the door.

“Sir?”

“What is it?” I snap, too quickly.

“About the woman yesterday… Cassandra.”

I look up sharply. “What about her?”

“She seemed… sincere.”

Something in my chest tightens. I try to ignore it. “You sound like you believe her.”

Chloe hesitates, her soft voice carrying more weight than usual. “Sometimes, sir, the truth doesn’t come dressed in logic.”

And with that, she leaves. The silence returns. I sit, fingers drumming on the desk. My mind races.

I pick up my phone. Her number isn’t saved, but I remember it. How could I forget? The note at the bar. Her handwriting. That trembling confidence that made me want to look away, but I didn’t.

I hover over the call button. And then I put it down.

No. This is a mistake.

One night. One mistake. One woman. She isn’t walking back into my life. Not now, not ever.

If she’s lying, I’ll know. If she’s telling the truth… I’ll deal with it on my terms.

Either way, Cassandra Jordan Alvarez will not disrupt the life I’ve built.

But as night falls and I stare over the city from my penthouse, rain begins again. Gentle, persistent, cruelly calm.

And for the first time in years, I imagine what it would feel like — not to be feared, not to be admired, but to be loved.

By her.

I shake the thought off like it’s poison.

Men like me don’t get love. We buy silence. We control outcomes. We win.

And whatever chaos she’s brought into my world, whatever storm her presence ignites — I will control that too.

Because that’s who I am. That’s all I know.