The Billionaire’s Broken Vow

Chapter two

Ashley Murphy’s Point of View

I lock myself in my apartment’s bathroom, the pregnancy test shaking in my hand like a losing ticket. The Vegas skyline glitters through the window, a carefree mosaic of neon mocking my turmoil—the Strip’s endless party where hearts break as easily as banks. My stomach churns, and it’s not just nausea—it’s the bone-deep fear of what comes next.

The test sits on the sink, two minutes from upending my world like a roulette wheel's final spin. I pace, my bare feet cold on the tile, the faint hum of traffic below a constant reminder of the city's relentless pace. Scott’s voice echoes in my head: “This isn’t over, Ashley.”

Why did he say that? Three years ago, he left me without a word, vanishing into the desert night, and now he’s marrying Nicole in a media-hyped "power merger" that reeks of calculation. But last night, in that gilded hallway, his eyes said something else—guilt, maybe even longing. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving me in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

I sink onto the floor, my back against the tub, the cool porcelain grounding me. My sketchbook lies on the counter, half-finished designs for Nicole’s dress staring back like accusations. I’m supposed to make her shine on her wedding day, but all I feel is shame for still wanting him, for the subtle thorns I've woven into the lace patterns as a silent rebellion against the betrayal.

The timer beeps, shrill and final. I grab the test, my heart pounding like the bass in a casino club. Two pink lines stare back, unyielding.

I’m pregnant. Scott’s the father. And he’s about to walk down the aisle with my best friend in a chapel overlooking the fountains.

My hands shake as I shove the test into a drawer, slamming it shut. I can’t breathe, the air thick with the scent of my lavender soap and rising panic. I need answers, not just about this baby, but about why Scott left me—why he folded on us without a fight.

I grab my phone, my fingers hovering over his number, the screen's glow harsh in the dim light. We met at a charity gala a few weeks ago, before I knew about Nicole, in one of those opulent high-roller suites where the city's elite play. One drink led to another, then to his room, our bodies tangled in a desperate, stupid mistake fueled by unresolved fire.

I thought it meant something—a spark rekindled amid the champagne and city lights. He didn’t call after. Now I know why: he was already entangled in this engagement, even if he claims it wasn't official yet.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of the spiral. Nicole’s name flashes on the screen, her photo smiling innocently. “Ash, where did you go last night?” she asks when I pick up, her voice too bright, like she's forcing the cheer.

“Had a headache,” I lie, my throat tight as a noose. “I’m fine now.”

“Come to the studio,” she says. “I need your magic for the dress.” Her laugh feels like a slap, echoing hollowly, and I hate how much it hurts, how it twists the knife of her unwitting—or is it?—betrayal.

I agree and hang up, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. Nicole’s my best friend, the one who held me when Scott disappeared, wiping my tears in her luxury apartment overlooking the Strip. How could she not know he was mine first? Or does she, and this is her way of claiming victory? The injustice of it all fuels my anger.

I splash water on my face, the cold shock not enough to wash away the truth. I’m pregnant, alone, and designing a gown for the woman stealing my life, embedding hidden symbols of deceit in the fabric as my quiet revenge. I need to talk to Scott, to know why he broke me—and if there's any part of him worth saving for our child.

I drive to my studio, passing the bright lights and loud sounds of the Vegas Strip—the fountains dancing, tourists cheering at wins that never last. My hands grip the wheel, my mind spinning like a slot reel. I’m weak for still loving him, for letting him touch me that night at the gala, our bodies reigniting old flames in a suite that smelled of success and sin.

The studio’s quiet, my sketches pinned to the walls like ghosts of happier brides. I sit at my desk, trying to draw, but my pencil won’t move, hovering over the page where I've sketched thorns entwining the lace—my subtle weapon. All I see is Scott’s face, his guilt, his words: “I never meant to.”

The door creaks open. Scott steps in, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, his eyes locked on me with that intensity that once made me feel like the only winner in the room. My heart leaps, then sinks into dread.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, standing up. My voice shakes, and I hate it. “Nicole’s not here.”

“I know,” he says, closing the door with a soft click that echoes like a lock turning. His voice is low, like he’s afraid someone’s listening amid the city's constant surveillance. “I came for you.”

My chest tightens. I want to scream, to shove him out into the neon chaos, but my body betrays me, leaning toward him like a moth to flame. “You don’t get to do this, Scott. Not after you left.”

He steps closer, his cologne wrapping around me like a memory of stolen nights. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he says, his eyes raw with something vulnerable. “I had to.”

“Why?” My voice cracks, tears burning behind my eyes. “You owed me that much—at least a goodbye instead of vanishing like smoke in a casino lounge.”

He runs a hand over his face, his jaw tight under the studio's soft lighting. “It was a deal. To save my company. I thought I was protecting you.”

I laugh, bitter and sharp, the sound echoing off the walls lined with fabric swatches. “Protecting me? You broke me, Scott, left me picking up pieces while you built your empire.”

His eyes flinch, like I’ve hit him with a truth he can't dodge. “I know,” he whispers. “But that night at the gala...”

“Don’t.” I step back, my hands shaking. “You knew you were on the path to engaged, and you still let it happen.”

“I wasn’t engaged then,” he cuts in, his voice urgent, stepping into the space I created. “I proposed to Nicole after. I didn’t know how to face you after what we shared.”

My breath catches. That’s the twist that stabs me—he wasn’t engaged when we slept together in that high-roller suite, bodies crashing like waves. But he chose her anyway, folding on us for good.

“You picked her,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, the words heavy as lead chips. “My best friend.”

He reaches for me, his fingers brushing my arm, sending unwelcome sparks. “Ashley, I—”

The door swings open, and Nicole steps in, her smile freezing when she sees us, the tension thick as casino smoke. “Am I interrupting?” she asks, her eyes darting from Scott’s hand to my face, sharp as a dealer's cut.

My heart pounds. I pull away, my sketchbook falling to the floor with a thud. “No,” I say, too fast. “We’re just talking fabric.”

Nicole’s smile tightens, her fingers clutching her purse like a bad hand she's hiding. “Good,” she says, but her voice is cold, laced with suspicion. “I need you focused, Ash. This dress is everything—my ticket to the Sterling legacy.”

Scott stays silent, his eyes on me, heavy with unspoken promises. I want to tell him about the baby, to scream the truth amid this farce, but Nicole’s here, watching us like a hawk circling prey.

“I’ll get to work,” I say, bending to grab my sketchbook, my hand brushing my stomach where our secret grows. The weight feels heavier than ever, a high-stakes bet I didn't mean to place.

Nicole links her arm with Scott’s, pulling him toward the door with possessive grace. “Let’s go, babe,” she says, her tone sharp as a stiletto. “We’ve got a cake tasting at that exclusive spot on the Strip.”

Scott hesitates, his gaze lingering on me like a final roll of the dice. “We’ll talk later,” he says, and it’s not a question—it's a vow in a city full of broken ones.

They leave, and I collapse into my chair, my hands trembling. I’m pregnant with his child, and he’s hiding something bigger than a deal, while Nicole circles like she's ready to cash in. I need to know what.

I grab my phone, scrolling through old texts from the gala night, the screen's light casting shadows. There’s one I missed, buried in notifications, sent hours after we parted amid rumpled sheets. It’s from Scott: “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you everything.”

My heart stops. There’s a file attached, a photo of a document, blurry but official-looking under the gala's afterglow. I zoom in, and one word jumps out: “Sterling.”

What the hell did Scott drag me into, and how deep does this gamble go?