Fake Heiress Stole My Man, My Baby, My Life

"Stop the surgery," the unfamiliar voice demanded.

The OR doors banged open, but the heavy anesthesia dragged me under before I could see his face. The sterile lights faded to black.

My mind violently rewound. It anchored me to the beginning of my private hell. Five months ago.

Darius shoved me through the double doors of the penthouse. I stumbled, my palms slapping against the marble floor to catch my balance.

"Get inside," he ordered, his voice echoing in the massive foyer.

I pushed myself up, rubbing my wrists. This was supposed to be our sanctuary. We picked these imported tiles together. Now, six towering wardrobe boxes and a mountain of designer luggage blocked the hallway.

"What is all this?" I asked, staring at a stack of velvet hat boxes.

"Elowen is moving in," Darius stated. He walked past me, not even offering a hand. "You will sleep in the utility room off the kitchen."

"The utility room?" I repeated, my stomach twisting. "Darius, it has no heat. I'm carrying your child."

"You are carrying a parasite," he corrected. He stopped and turned his head. His eyes held absolute zero. "And you will earn your keep. Unpack her bags."

A door clicked open. Elowen stepped out of the master bedroom. *My* bedroom. She wore a crimson silk robe. The exact robe Darius bought me in Paris for our third anniversary.

"Careful with the Prada bags," Elowen sneered, leaning against the doorframe. "I doubt a servant's daughter knows how to handle real Italian leather."

I bit the inside of my cheek until a metallic taste flooded my tongue.

"Take off my robe," I demanded.

Elowen laughed. "Your robe? Nothing here belongs to you. You are the hired help."

I looked at Darius. "Tell her to take it off."

"Do your job, Rowan," he said, walking into his study and slamming the door.

I stood alone in the hallway. I pressed a hand to my flat stomach. *He's just blinded by anger,* I told myself. *He will see her true colors. I just have to wait.*

I was a fool.

"Wake up."

Freezing water splashed across my face. I gasped, shooting up from the thin cot in the utility room.

Elowen stood over me in the dark. She held an empty crystal pitcher. The neon glow of the microwave clock read 4:00 AM.

"I want eggs," she demanded. "Poached. And a matcha latte."

I wiped the dripping water from my eyes. "The sun isn't even up."

"Did I ask for the weather report?" she snapped. "Cook."

I dragged myself up. My lower back throbbed. I moved to the kitchen, silently preparing the tray. I carried the porcelain plate to the dining table where she sat scrolling on her phone.

Elowen picked up her silver fork. She poked the egg once. Then she shoved the plate off the edge.

Porcelain shattered against the hardwood. Hot yolk splattered across my bare ankles.

"Too runny," she complained, tossing the fork onto the table. "Make it again."

Footsteps approached. Darius strode into the room, tying the string of his sweatpants.

"What is going on out here?" he asked.

"Darius," I pleaded, pointing at the mess on the floor. "She threw the plate at me."

"Because it was raw!" Elowen cried out. She shrank back into her chair, pulling her knees to her chest. "She's trying to make me sick, Darius. She hates me."

He turned his glare on me. "Clean it up."

"She did it on purpose!" I argued. "She woke me up at four in the morning just to torture me."

Darius crossed the room. He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jawline.

"You will attend to her every need," he growled. "If I hear one more complaint, I will cut off your living expenses entirely. Good luck paying for those prenatal visits when I throw you out on the street."

"You would starve your own baby?" I asked, a tear slipping down my cheek.

"It's not mine," he replied, dropping his hand like I burned him. "Now get the mop."

Weeks bled into months. My belly swelled, heavy with the child he refused to acknowledge. I kept my head down. I scrubbed the floors. I ironed Elowen's dresses. I fed myself on the delusion that Darius was just testing my loyalty.

Then came the summer gala.

The penthouse swarmed with the city's elite. Classical music drifted through the massive living room. I stood in the kitchen, wearing a stiff black uniform that pinched my waist.

"Rowan," Darius barked from the doorway. "Bring the tea service to the terrace."

I lifted the heavy silver tray. My spine protested under the weight. I navigated through the crowd of silk gowns and tailored suits.

Elowen sat on the center outdoor sofa, surrounded by her wealthy friends.

"Set it here," she ordered, tapping the glass table.

I bent down. A sharp pain shot through my pelvis, but I held the tray steady.

"Oh, Elowen, your ring is absolutely stunning," a woman named Clara gushed.

"Darius designed it himself," Elowen boasted. She raised her hand, letting the diamond catch the patio lights. She made sure I heard every word. "We finalized the wedding venue today. The Amalfi Coast. Three hundred guests."

My chest tightened. Amalfi. Darius and I spent weeks looking at private villas there last year.

"I ordered a custom Vera Wang," Elowen announced to the group. "French lace. A ten-foot train."

"Darius must be spending a fortune," Clara noted.

"He spares no expense for the woman he truly loves," Elowen replied, locking eyes with me. "Pour the Earl Grey."

I picked up the teapot. My hand shook.

"Watch it," she hissed, leaning forward so only I could hear. "You look pathetic. Standing there, fat and miserable, while I plan the wedding you begged for."

"He will figure you out," I whispered back, my voice strained.

Elowen laughed, a sharp, ringing sound. "He already gave me full control of the guest list. I'm picking white peonies for the centerpieces. You hate peonies, don't you?"

"You are a monster."

"I'm the future Mrs. Cross. And you are the maid."

I slammed the teapot onto the tray. Hot liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the white lace napkin.

"Rowan!" Darius's voice cut through the chatter. He marched over, his face flushed with anger. "What is wrong with you?"

"She's just clumsy, darling," Elowen said, linking her arm through his. "Maybe her condition makes her uncoordinated. A servant's daughter isn't used to fine china."

The guests chuckled. A wave of humiliation crashed over me. I stared at the floor, my cheeks burning.

"Apologize to her," Darius ordered.

"No," I refused, lifting my chin to look directly into his cold eyes.

"Do it," he warned, stepping closer. "Or I call security and have you thrown out right now. Let's see how long a pregnant woman lasts in the slums."

I looked at the man I loved. The man who used to kiss my forehead every morning for five years. He was entirely gone.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, the words scraping my throat.

"Louder," Elowen demanded with a wicked smile.

"I am sorry, Miss Elowen."

"Good," Darius said, turning his back on me. "Get back to the kitchen."

I retreated to the shadows of the hallway, clutching my stomach. The baby kicked, a tiny flutter of life against my palm.

I endured this hell, praying for a miracle. I didn't know the worst was still to come. The boiling soup. The blood. The loss.

The memory shattered as a sharp pinch hit my arm.

I snapped my eyes open. The blinding lights of the OR were gone. I was in a dimly lit recovery room.

A tall figure stood by the window, his broad shoulders blocking the streetlights. He turned around.

"You're awake," the deep, unfamiliar voice stated. "Good. We have a lot to discuss about your former fiancé."