Escaping The Ruthless CEO With My Baby

The city lights of Manhattan blurred into streaks of gold and white as the car sped downtown. Izora stared out the window, the glittering spectacle a world away from the icy landscape of her heart. She opened her clutch and took out a compact, dabbing concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles. She could not afford to look weak. She was Mrs. Lawson, and tonight, that title was her only weapon.

The car pulled up to the grand entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As she stepped out, a barrage of camera flashes momentarily blinded her. She held her head high, a polite, practiced smile fixed on her face, and moved through the gauntlet of press with a grace she did not feel.

Inside, the Great Hall was a sea of champagne, diamonds, and calculated smiles. The air hummed with the low thrum of powerful people making powerful conversation. Izora scanned the crowd, her eyes searching for Julian's familiar, sardonic grin.

Instead, they landed on the one person she wanted to avoid.

Aloysius. He stood near the base of the grand staircase, looking effortlessly commanding in his tuxedo. And on his arm, clinging to him with a proprietary air, was Aida Jefferson, a rising actress whose star was fueled more by her social media savvy than her talent. They looked like a power couple on a magazine cover. Whispers followed them like a trail of perfume.

A sharp pang went through Izora's chest, but she forced herself to look away, to refocus on her mission. Find Julian.

But it was too late. Aida had spotted her. A triumphant smirk flickered across the actress's perfectly made—up face. She whispered something in Aloysius's ear, and then, like a predator sensing an opportunity, she began to steer him in Izora's direction.

"Mrs. Lawson," Aida purred, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "What a surprise to see you here." The unspoken "alone" hung in the air between them.

Aloysius's face was a cold, indifferent mask. He looked at Izora as if she were a piece of furniture he had to navigate around.

Aida reached into her tiny, jewel—encrusted clutch and produced a folded check. A personal check from Aloysius's account. She pushed it towards Izora. "Aloysius asked me to give this to you. Sign the divorce papers, and you can write any number you want on it."

The guests nearby fell silent, their eyes wide with hungry curiosity. They smelled blood in the water.

Izora didn't even glance at the check. Her gaze was fixed on Aida. "Miss Jefferson," she said, her voice quiet but carrying in the sudden hush. "In what capacity are you speaking to me?"

Aida's smile tightened. She lifted her chin. "I'm the woman Aloysius loves."

Izora let out a small, soft laugh. "Is that so? But my name is the one on the marriage certificate. And as long as I am Mrs. Lawson, the child I am carrying is the first—in—line heir to the Lawson fortune."

She deliberately emphasized the words "first—in—line heir," her eyes flicking pointedly to Aida's flat stomach.

Color flooded Aida's face. She was speechless, sputtering with rage.

Izora turned her cool gaze to her husband. "Control your... companion, Mr. Lawson. Not just anyone is qualified to negotiate terms with me."

The words were a perfect shot, striking Aida right where it hurt most—her unofficial, unrecognized status. A collective, muffled gasp went through the onlookers. No one had expected the quiet, docile Izora Shaw to have such a sharp tongue.

Aida looked like she was about to lunge, but a single, warning glance from Aloysius stopped her cold.

Izora, having made her point, turned and walked away, leaving the actress fuming and her husband looking on with an unreadable expression. She picked up a flute of champagne from a passing tray, her fingers trembling slightly. It was a small, temporary victory, but a necessary one. She would not be dismissed. She would not be erased.

She moved through the glittering crowd, her eyes once again scanning for Julian. Finally, she saw him. He was on a secluded terrace overlooking the park, leaning against the stone balustrade, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked bored and detached from the scene inside.

A spark of hope ignited in Izora's chest. She pushed through the French doors and hurried towards him.

"Julian..." she said, his name a desperate plea on her lips.