His Weak Woman

The Heir Or Nothing

“Onesmus, drive me to my place,” Pinky snapped from the restaurant curb. “Now.”

Onesmus, Charles’s driver, opened the door. She slid in, still clutching whiskey and cigarette smoke like weapons.

She was staying at a penthouse Charles rented for her. Marble floors. City views. Paid for by “upkeep money”.

That evening had cracked something in her. She kept replaying the car ride. I want in the family business. His laugh. His rejection.

Pinky wasn’t dumb. She knew asking for board seats 3 months pregnant was a hard nut to c***k.

But Pinky was a dog with a bone. And she never quit.

Funny thing? Those were my lessons.

Back when we were best friends. Back when she was my junior in college, crying over bad grades and toxic exes. I taught her: “Never beg. Make them need you. Be undeniable.”

I trained her to be a wolf.

I forgot wolves bite the hand that feeds them.

*TAYLOR MANSION. 2 WEEKS LATER.*

Boredom was killing me faster than Charles’s insults.

He’d forbidden me from work. “A Taylor wife doesn’t have a job,” he said. So I made one.

I turned the empty west wing into a library. Floor-to-ceiling books. Leather chairs. Silence.

‘A reading mind is a healthy mind, that was my motto now.

Lately I’d been obsessed with stories about betrayed wives who became billionaires. My favorite: The Man Who Dumped His Heiress. Husband leaves her broke, only to learn years later she inherited a trillion-dollar empire. Plot twist: he ends up working as her gardener. Happy ending.

I laughed reading it. The irony tasted sweet.

Then my joy died.

It’d been 37 days. No period.

For a girl with asthma and stress, missing one month meant nothing. Missing two meant panic.

I pressed both hands to my stomach. Still flat. But inside… I’d felt it. A flutter. Like butterfly wings.

Concerning?

Terrifying.

*8:17 PM. My Secret Call.*

I locked the library door and dialed a number from memory.

Dr. Randoos picked up on ring 2.

“Evening, Doc. Quick question about patient confidentiality?” My voice was steady. My hands weren’t.

“Mrs. Taylor,” he said smoothly. “Patient confidentiality means a doctor cannot share your medical info with anyone including your husband without written consent. To do so is malpractice. Lawsuit. License revoked.”

“Good,” I breathed. Relief flooded me.

Dr. Randoos had known the Taylors since Charles was born. He knew what kind of man Charles was. But he was a professional first.

I told him my symptoms. Missed period. Nausea. The fluttering.

“Go buy a pregnancy test, Nila,” he said softly. “And if it’s positive… we talk next steps. Quietly.”

Next minute, I was in the mansion bathroom. Two pink lines stared back at me.

Positive.

I was pregnant.

And Charles thought I was “barren”.

*SAME NIGHT. TAYLOR FAMILY ESTATE, UPSTATE NEW YORK.*

Charles wasn’t coming home. He hadn’t for 2 days.

Family meeting. Mandatory. The Taylors called it “familia night”. No excuses. No absences.

He walked in late. Everyone was already seated in the 40-seat dining room. Crystal. Silver. Silence.

The Taylors were power. Old money. Blood money.

And at the head of the table sat Taylor Senior. Charles’s father. The man who built this empire with his bare hands and buried his enemies with the other.

They said his story needed a whole novel. Let’s just say: he stood his ground. Even cancer couldn’t make him kneel. Yet.

Every eye turned to Charles. Nobody asked about me. Wives were furniture at these meetings.

Except one.

“Did… did you… come with Nila?”

The voice was soft. Stuttered. Pure.

Tamara. Taylor Senior’s youngest daughter. 24 years old. Down syndrome. The family’s “embarrassment” they hid from press.

But to me? She was the only Taylor with a real heart.

Tonight she wore white lace with rose patches. Matching wristband and hairband. Mixed-race skin glowing under the chandelier. She looked like an angel they didn’t deserve.

“No, darling,” Charles said, smile fake. He pulled out a gift bag. “My wife was busy at home. But she got you this.” He’d stopped at the market on the way. Tamara’s favorite: art supplies.

Perfect husband act. Perfect lie.

He’d rather be seen with a gift than with his actual wife.

Taylor Senior cleared his throat. The room went grave-quiet.

“As you all know, time is a liability we can’t afford,” he said, voice like gravel. He paused 5 full seconds. Thinking. Remembering scars. “My cancer is back. Stage 4 this time.”

Gasps.

“I won’t live forever,” he continued. “So it’s time to put the family in order.”

He looked straight at Charles.

“Son, it will be an honor for you to take over Taylor Holdings when I’m gone.”

Nobody breathed. This was the moment. Crown the prince.

“However,” Taylor Senior raised one finger. “You don’t get the company until you produce an heir. With your wife. Blood of the Taylor name. Family tradition for 200 years.”

The room froze.

“No heir, no empire,” he finished. “Position goes to your uncle Thomas instead.”

Glass shattered.

Charles slammed both fists on the table so hard it cracked down the middle.

He stood up, chair screeching, and walked out without a word.

Nobody followed him.

Everyone knew the rule: Let the man be angry.

*48 HOURS LATER. DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, 2 AM.*

Charles was missing. No calls. No driver. No Pinky.

There was only one place he’d go when the world caved in the alley behind his old dive bar. Where he drank before he was a billionaire. Where nobody looked for a Taylor.

I found him there. Slumped against brick, suit jacket gone, tie loose, bottle in hand. Drunk enough to drown.

“Son of Taylor,” I said quietly. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He looked up. Eyes red. Lost. For the first time since our wedding, he looked human.

“Nila,” he slurred. “Take me home. We need to talk.”

I helped him up. He leaned all his weight on me. 6’3 of broken billionaire.

“I haven’t been the best husband,” he whispered as we walked. Each word hurt him to say. “I know that. But trust me… I’m willing to change. For one favor. Just one.”

I went still. My hand drifted to my stomach. Two heartbeats inside me.

His heir. His desperation. His last chance.

I was all ears.

But he had no idea what I was about to ask for in return.