THE TYRANT'S CONTRACT WIFE

Chapter 3: The Grandfather’s Ultimatum

The morning sun filtered through the sheer silk curtains of the guest bedroom, casting long, pale shadows across the plush cream carpet. Elena lay awake, staring up at the intricate crown molding of the ceiling. She hadn't slept more than two hours. Every time she closed her eyes, she either saw Killian Sterling’s suffocating, metallic grey gaze or heard her stepfather’s venomous threats.

A soft, rhythmic knocking at the door broke her out of her trance.

"Come in," Elena said, her voice sounding raspy and thin even to her own ears.

The heavy door swung open, and an older woman dressed in a crisp, black-and-white housekeeper’s uniform stepped inside. Her expression was polite but entirely unreadable. "Good morning, madam. I am Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper. Mr. Sterling has already left for the corporate headquarters this morning. He left instructions for your relocation."

Elena sat up, wrapping the heavy duvet tightly around her shoulders. "Relocation?"

"Your mother, Martha Vance," Mrs. Gable explained, pulling a sleek tablet from her apron. "Mr. Sterling’s private medical transport transferred her to the Sterling Memorial Pavilion at six o'clock this morning. She is currently settled into a private suite with round-the-clock nursing care. All expenses have been cleared under the Sterling corporate account."

A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washed over Elena. A sob threatened to lodge itself in her throat, but she forced it down, blinking back sudden tears. Killian had actually kept his word. He hadn't waited for her to prove herself; he had protected her mother the moment the ink on that contract dried. Perhaps the tyrant had a shred of honor after all.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Elena whispered, her shoulders dropping a fraction.

"Do not thank me, madam. I merely follow orders," Mrs. Gable replied smoothly. "Your personal belongings from the Vance residence have arrived and are being unpacked in the walk-in closet across the hall. Mr. Sterling expects you to be ready by six o'clock this evening. A stylist team will arrive at three to prepare you for dinner with Grandfather Jasper."

Mrs. Gable gave a small, formal nod and turned to leave. "Breakfast will be served in the dining room downstairs in thirty minutes."

As the door clicked shut, Elena swung her legs out of bed. The cold air of the room hit her bare skin, making her shiver. She walked over to the adjacent bathroom, intending to splash cold water on her face to wash away the exhaustion of the night.

But the moment her feet touched the cold marble floor of the bathroom, a sudden, violent spasm gripped her stomach.

Elena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as a wave of intense, burning nausea hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled toward the toilet, dropping to her knees just in time as her stomach painfully convulsed. She gagged into the bowl, her chest heaving as she dry-heaved violently. There was nothing in her system to throw up, making the spasms twist her abdomen painfully.

She clung to the porcelain rim, her knuckles turning white, her forehead dripping with cold sweat.

Stress, she told herself frantically, her heart rate spiking into a panic. It's just the stress. Anyone would be sick after the night I had.

She sat back on the floor, resting her head against the cool marble wall, waiting for the room to stop spinning. But deep down, a cold, terrifying calculation was already running through her mind. She thought back to her calendar. She thought back to that rainy night four weeks ago—the night she had discovered Harold was plotting to sell her off, the night she had gone to a dim, chaotic nightclub to drown her sorrows, and the night she had crossed paths with a mysterious, shadow-shrouded stranger in a private VIP room.

Elena’s hand slowly dropped from her chest down to her flat stomach. Her breath hitched.

No. It's impossible. It was just one night.

She forced herself to stand up, gripping the edge of the marble sink to steady her shaking legs. Looking into the grand mirror, she looked ghostly. Her doe-like amber eyes were wide with a new, primitive kind of fear. She couldn't ignore the signs anymore. Her cycle was nearly two weeks late.

If she was pregnant, her entire world would implode. She had just signed a contract to play the pristine, loyal wife of the city's most powerful billionaire. If Killian Sterling found out his fake wife was carrying a nameless stranger’s bastard child, he wouldn't just cancel the contract—he would crush her for humiliating him.

"I need to be sure," Elena whispered to her reflection, her voice trembling. "I have to get a test. Today."