Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

I've just asked a billionaire to marry me to save myself from a predatory debt collector and a family that views me as a line item.

Silence feels like punishment when you're talking to a man like Alistair Wolfe. And the phone has been silent for what feels like hours now. I grip the phone so hard that the edge of the case bites into my palm,

"Just a marriage of convenience," I say, my voice sounding much firmer than I feel. "I don't want your money. Once the baby is born, we can file for divorce. The only thing I ask for is visitation rights so I won't be a ghost in my own child's life."

The silence stretches for another five seconds, long enough for me to count the cracks in the hallway floorboards. I'm about to emphasize that it's just for convenience but I don't get the chance.

"Seven in the morning," Alistair says. "The City Clerk's Office. Bring your birth certificate, your passport, and every piece of identification you own. My lead attorney will be there at six forty-five with the paperwork. Don't be late, Emily."

The line clicks dead before I can even breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't say yes, but the instructions are good enough. I lean my head against the cool wallpaper, closing my eyes. This isn't the wedding I spent my girlhood dreaming about. There are no peonies, no cathedral veils, and certainly no groom who looks at me like I'm his entire world. Instead, I'm trading my freedom for a shield. It's a fair trade, I suppose.

I sleep fitfully, waking every hour to the image of Silas Reed's oily smile and Chloe kissing my fiancé. When the sun finally starts to bleed through the curtains, I pull myself out of bed, take a short shower, and reach for a simple navy blue wrap dress. It's professional, modest, and hides the fact that I've lost weight over the last few weeks. I brush my hair until it's a dark, glossy sheet. A little concealer and a swipe of tinted lip balm hide my weary look.

The City Clerk's Office smells like lemon floor wax and old coffee. It's a drab, municipal building with rows of plastic chairs and the constant, dull drone of a printer somewhere in the back. A man in a charcoal suit stands near the information desk, clutching a leather briefcase. The quality of his suit tells me he's the billionaire's lawyer.

"Ms. Vance?" he asks when he sees me. He doesn't smile. "I'm Markson, Mr. Wolfe's personal counsel. We have quite a bit to get through before he arrives."

He leads me to a small, private table in the corner and begins spreading out sheets of thick, high-bond paper. The prenuptial agreement is so detailed I almost suspect it was prepared weeks before. But that's not possible because this marriage was my idea. It outlines the duration of the marriage, the post-divorce property arrangements, and the most painful part: full legal and physical custody of the child for Alistair Wolfe. My visitation rights are listed in a series of bullet points.

I read every word, the ink blurring as tears gather my eyes. I realize I'm signing away the only thing that will be truly mine. But then I remember the alternative. If I stay in that house, my stepmother will drag me to marry a man who breaks women for sport. I reach for the gold-tipped pen Markson offers and sign my name on the bottom of every page.

"Everything seems to be in order," Markson says, checking his watch.

A few minutes later, the glass doors at the entrance swing open, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. It's as if the temperature has dropped ten degrees. Alistair Wolfe walks in, and almost everyone in the room turns to lok at him. He isn't wearing a full suit today. He has on a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of dark tailored trousers. He looks effortless, rugged, and breathtakingly handsome in a way that makes my throat feel dry.

He stops in front of our table, his gaze sweeping over me with the same intensity he had yesterday. He doesn't offer a greeting. He looks at the signed papers, then back at me. For a split second, his eyes drop to my lips, his focus lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. Then, the coldness returns.

"Did she sign?" Alistair asks the lawyer.

"Every page, sir," Markson confirms.

"Good. Let's get this over with."

The registration process is a blur of stamps and signatures. Because of Alistair's influence, we are ushered into a private office where a clerk with a tired expression processes the expedited service. Within fifteen minutes, a piece of paper with a gold seal is slid across the desk toward us.

Alistair picks up one copy and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine, and I feel a jolt of something that isn't quite fear but feels just as dangerous. His skin is warm, a sharp contrast to his icy demeanor.

"You're now Mrs. Wolfe," he says. "I have to fly to London immediately. There's an acquisition that needs my direct attention. I'll be gone for three days."

I stare at the paper. Emily Wolfe. It looks wrong. It looks like a lie written in gold ink.

"I'll send a car and a team of movers to your father's house on Thursday morning at eight," he continues. "You'll move into my estate. For the duration of this contract, you live with me. I need to ensure the health of my heir is monitored properly."

"I can take care of myself, Alistair," I say, trying to reclaim some shred of my dignity.

He steps closer, his shadow falling over me. He smells like sandalwood. "You're carrying my child, Emily. That makes your safety my business. Don't make this difficult."

He pauses, his gaze softening by a fraction of a millimeter. "Do you need a ride back?"

I shake my head quickly. The thought of Alistair's black car pulling up to my father's driveway is a nightmare. Lydia would have a heart attack, and Thomas would probably try to ask him for a loan before I could even get out of the vehicle. "No. I'll take a cab. I need to handle things at home first."

Alistair nods once, a sharp, decisive movement. "Thursday. Eight o'clock. Don't make my men wait."

He turns and walks out, Markson trailing behind him like a loyal shadow. I stand in the middle of the lobby, clutching my marriage license to my chest. My heart is a steady, heavy thud. I've done it. I've jumped off the cliff, and now I just have to wait and see if the parachute opens.

When I walk through the front door of the Vance estate, the scent of Lydia's expensive lilies almost suffocates me. My father and stepmother are sitting in the foyer, dressed as if they're going to a funeral. Lydia is wearing a sharp, black suit, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks painful. Thomas is fidgeting with his cufflinks with a small frown on his face.

"Where have you been?" Lydia snaps, standing up the moment the door clicks shut. "We've been calling you for two hours. We have someone expecting us at the St. Regis for lunch. You need to go upstairs and put on that red dress I bought you. And for heaven's sake, do something about your face. You look exhausted."

"Who are we going to meet?" I ask, pretending not to already know.

"Someone important."

My father stands up too, though he won't quite meet my eyes. "Emily, please. Just cooperate. It's a simple lunch. This person is a very influential man. He can help us."

"Help you," I correct him. I feel a strange sense of power bubbling up inside me, a cold, clean anger that burns away the last of my fear. "I know it's Silas Reed we're going to meet. And you want to see me off because he can help you pay for your bad investments and Lydia's jewelry. But he can't help me."

"Don't be dramatic," Lydia says, walking toward me. "You're a Vance. You have a responsibility to this family. Now, get upstairs."

I don't move. I reach into my purse and pull out the marriage license. I hold it up, the gold seal catching the light of the chandelier.

"I'm not a Vance anymore," I say. "I got married this morning."

Lydia stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. My father's face goes pale, his eyes wide as he stares at the document.

"What are you talking about?" he stammers. "Married? To who? Julian is still in the hospital, he-"

"Not to Julian," I say, stepping closer so they can see the name on the paper. "To Alistair Wolfe. I'm his wife now. Which means I'm his responsibility. So, you can call Silas Reed and tell him the deal is off. I'm moving out on Thursday."

The silence that follows is the most satisfying sound I've ever heard. I walk past them toward the stairs, my head held high, leaving the ruins of their plans scattered on the floor. I'm going to a house of ice, but at least the walls there would be mine.

For a while.