Pregnant With His Heir, After The Divorce

The flashing camera strobes in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Metropolitan felt like lightning hitting open wounds. Vivian stood near the marble pillars, her fingers digging so tightly into her clutch that the metal seam bit into her palm. Across the ballroom, standing under the crystal chandelier before a dozen news cameras, was her husband, Julien. And on his arm was Chloe. His secretary and mistress. Chloe was laughing, her bare shoulder pressed against Julien’s suit jacket, her hand resting over his lapel. But it wasn't the open display of infidelity that made the blood run cold in Vivian’s veins. It was the crimson glow against Chloe’s collarbone. The Eleanor Vance Rubies. Her mother’s heirloom necklace—the last remaining piece of her family's legacy—was resting around the neck of her husband's mistress. "He really has no shame, does he?" a female reporter whispered a few feet away, her microphone lowered. "Flaunting his mistress at the annual Vance Memorial Gala while his wife stands in the corner like a ghost?" "Julien runs the board now," another voice replied softly. "Vivian’s just a figurehead. Word is, she doesn't have a dime left of her own." Vivian swallowed the bitter lump in her throat, keeping her spine straight and her chin high. For three excruciating years, she had endured Julien’s emotional cruelty, playing the quiet, submissive wife to protect her family’s remaining assets. But seeing her mother’s jewels on Chloe was a line crossed in fire. "Vivian. A word. Now." Julien’s smooth, arrogant voice cut through her thoughts. He had stepped away from the cameras, leaving Chloe to smile for the photographers. He grabbed Vivian by the elbow, his grip tight enough to leave dark bruises tomorrow, and pulled her out of the main hall into the dimly lit, carpeted VIP corridor. He shoved her back against the mahogany wall, unbuttoning his suit jacket with a sneer. "You're making a scene just by standing there looking like a tragic widow," Julien spat, pulling a folded legal document from his inner pocket and slapping it against her chest. "Sign it." Vivian caught the paper before it hit the floor. Her dark eyes scanned the bold header: MARITAL AGREEMENT RIDER & ASSET SURRENDER. "What is this, Julien?" she asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy calm. "Starting tonight, our marriage is open," Julien purred, stepping closer until his breath, smelling of expensive scotch, coated her face. "I will live where I want, take who I want into our bed, and parade Chloe through every high-society event in Manhattan. You will remain in the suburban townhouse, keep your mouth shut, and act as my dutiful buffer when the press asks questions." "And if I refuse?" Vivian asked, her chest heaving as hot, blinding rage flared behind her ribs. Julien let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He reached out, his long fingers catching her jaw and squeezing until her teeth clicked together. "If you refuse to sign that rider by midnight... I file for immediate liquidation of the Vance estate tomorrow morning," Julien whispered in her face. "I'll take that ruby necklace off Chloe's neck only to put it on the public auction block. I'll foreclose on your parents' home, seize their patents, and leave you on the street with absolutely nothing." He released her chin with a sharp flick, turning on his heel. "You have until midnight, Vivian. Don't disappoint me." Vivian leaned back against the cold wall, her breath coming in ragged hitches as Julien strolled back into the glittering ballroom. The room spun around her. Three years of survival, three years of playing broken—and it had all led to this corner. She turned away from the main hall, her heels clicking rapidly against the marble as she pushed through the heavy double doors into the secluded, private VIP lounge at the end of the corridor. She needed a moment to breathe, a moment to clear the red haze from her vision. The room was pitch black, lit only by the ambient glow of the rain-streaked skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Vivian reached for the light switch, but before her fingers could find the panel, a broad, heavy hand shot out from the shadows, catching her wrist in an iron grip. CLICK. The heavy doors behind her slammed shut, the electronic lock engaging with a sharp, terrifying hum. "Still running into dark rooms when you're cornered?" The voice was a low, velvet purr that sent a violent tremor straight down Vivian’s spine. Suddenly, the room was bathed in the dim, golden light of a single desk lamp. Three tall, imposing figures emerged from the shadows, surrounding her in a tight, suffocating perimeter of absolute physical power. On her right stood Lucian Blackwood, his hands casually thrust into his pockets, a dangerous smirk playing on his handsome face. On her left stood Alexander Blackwood, his sharp jaw tight, his analytical dark eyes sweeping over her shivering frame like a laser. And directly in front of her, towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the city lights—stood Ethan Blackwood. His charcoal suit was bespoke, his dark hair damp from the rain outside, and his piercing, icy blue eyes locked onto hers with a terrifying, possessive intensity. The three Blackwood brothers. The men she had left five years ago after their empire crumbled. The men whose hearts she had shattered. "Ethan..." Vivian’s voice was barely a breath. "Don't say my name like you still own it," Ethan growled softly, stepping so close his broad chest brushed hers. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around her throat with iron authority, forcing her head back until she was looking straight into his stormy gaze. "Five years, Vivian. Five years of watching you play house with that pathetic worm." "You... you shouldn't be here," Vivian gasped, her pulse hammering wildly against his palm. "If Julien sees you—" "Julien sees nothing," Alexander interrupted smoothly, stepping forward with an encrypted tablet in hand. "Because as of three minutes ago, Blackwood Global purchased the primary mortgage debt on this hotel, the Vance estate's credit default lines, and forty percent of your husband's commercial paper." Lucian leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of Vivian’s ear as he reached out and took Julien’s open marriage rider directly from her trembling hands. With a flick of his wrist, Lucian tore the paper in half, letting the scraps flutter to the floor. "He gave you an ultimatum until midnight, didn't he?" Lucian whispered, his voice rich with dark, lethal amusement. "Sign his surrender, or lose your mother's memory." Vivian stared at Ethan, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Why are you doing this? You hate me. You think I sold you out five years ago!" Ethan’s grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her breath catch, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jawline with ruthless tenderness. "We despise you for what you did," Ethan whispered, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, terrifying power that made her knees weak. "We spent five years in European exile cursing your name. But you belong to us, Vivian. You were ours long before you wore his ring." Ethan reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek, black leather folder and pressing it against her chest—exactly where Julien had slapped his document moments before. "Here is our ultimatum, Vivian," Ethan growled, his icy blue eyes burning into her soul. "You have two choices right now. Option one: You walk back out to that ballroom, sign Julien's paper, and let him destroy you." He leaned down until his lips were mere millimeters from hers, his breath scorching hot in the cool room. "Option two: You sign our contract right now. You give us your undivided loyalty, your presence, and your total compliance. And in return... we walk out onto that stage together in thirty minutes, and we burn Julien Thorne’s entire life to the ground on live international television." Ethan’s hand shifted from her throat to her waist, pulling her body flush against his, sealing her between the three titans. "Choose, Vivian," Ethan commanded softly. "Which master are you taking tonight?"