The Billionaire's Nanny

Chapter Two: The Divorce

I stood up, my chair screeching against the laminate floor. I snatched the ultrasound from the table, shoving it into my back pocket with trembling fingers.

Betsy didn’t look like a woman who had been missing for years; she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Mayfair spa. Her eyes raked over my oversized jumper and tear-stained face with a flick of pure disgust.

"Oh, Jacob," she sighed, her voice like silk over a hidden blade. "I didn't realise you’d kept the help living in the main suite. It’s a bit... cluttered, isn't it?"

Jacob let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "She won’t be here for long." He turned to me, his eyes cold as ice. I could smell Betsy’s disgusting fake designer perfume all over his suit. "It’s over, Freya. Betsy is back. I don’t need the placeholder anymore."

Jacob didn't even take off his coat. He walked to the sideboard, poured himself a finger of Scotch, and looked at me with nothing but boredom. "Let’s not make a scene. You knew this was a temporary arrangement. I needed a wife to secure the Miller estate, and you were... available. Now that the real mistress of the house has returned, this.... charade.... is over."

He slammed a stack of legal papers onto the table. "Sign this."

"Sign it, darling," Betsy added, a sickly sweet, poisonous smile spreading across her lips. "Jacob and I have already started planning our real wedding. You’re just the final bit of clutter. Pack your things and get out." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a hiss.

"Thanks for keeping him warm for me, but his heart was always mine."

"But Jacob..." I began, my voice failing me.

"Save it. I’m not interested." He turned his attention back to Betsy.

I felt a hollow ache in my chest as I leaned over the table to sign my life away. I just wanted to leave before I broke completely. But as I leaned forward, I felt a sharp tug at my back pocket.

"Oooh, what’s this?" Betsy chirped, waving the ultrasound in the air.

Her face contorted. "Oh, Jacob. You didn’t?"

Jacob’s face went pale, then turned a furious shade of red. He looked at me as if I were a stray dog that had ruined his rug. "No, my love. Never. She must have cheated. Those bastards aren't mine."

"They are yours, Jacob! You know they are!" I cried, but it was too late.

With a brutal twist of his hands, Jacob ripped the ultrasound in half. He threw the jagged pieces onto the floor. A sob escaped my lips as I dropped to my knees, scrambling to pick up the remains of my children's first photograph.

"I would never be like you, Jacob," I snapped, glaring up at him through a veil of tears. I shoved the torn pieces into my pocket and stood, stabbing my signature onto the divorce papers. "There. I hope you and your mistress are very happy together."

"I’m not the mistress, b***h," Betsy spat, her refined mask slipping. "You’re the one who stole my life. Now you’re getting exactly what you deserve."

Jacob thrust an empty bin bag into my hands. "Pack your things. And I mean your things, Freya. Not the jewellery I bought you, not the designer dresses. Take that tacky locket you’re always clutching too - you might be able to get a fiver for it if you’re lucky. I’ve already frozen the accounts. You came here with a bin bag and a sob story; you can leave the same way."

I retreated into the bedroom - the room that had been mine for three years - and stuffed my meager belongings into the bag. I grabbed my old photo album and the silver locket, the only link to the side of the road where I was found.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked small. Broken. I lowered my hand to my stomach. “I’m sorry, babies,” I whispered.

“Daddy doesn’t want us, but I promise, I will find a way through this for us.”

When I walked back out, Betsy was already sipping the wine I had opened for our anniversary. She was stood by the fireplace, tapping her toe with exaggerated impatience.

Jacob grabbed my arm - a grip that used to feel like a sanctuary, but now felt like a shackle - and steered me toward the door.

"The locks are being changed at 8:00 AM," Jacob snapped, his hand on the handle. "Don't bother calling. My lawyers will handle the rest."

He pushed me out into the cold, carpeted hallway and slammed the door. The sound of the deadbolt clicking home echoed like a gunshot.

I stood there in the silence, clutching my bin bag and my locket. I was alone in London, in autumn, without so much as a coat, with nowhere to go and not a soul to call.