Incubator No More: The Billionaire's Secret Heir
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I sat in the VIP waiting room of the fertility clinic, clutching the report that confirmed my implantation was a success. After years of struggling, I finally had a reason to make my marriage with Garnett work.
But when I went to find him in the lounge, I heard a woman’s laughter coming from behind the door. It was his mistress, Alison. I froze as I heard Garnett’s cold, dismissive voice.
"She’s just an incubator."
"Once the heir is born, we kick her out. The trust fund only requires a legitimate heir born to my wife. It doesn't require the wife to stick around afterwards."
The betrayal went deeper than I could have imagined. I soon discovered the clinic had botched the procedure—the baby I was carrying wasn't even Garnett’s. It was donor sperm from Sterling Sharp, the most powerful tech mogul in the world.
When my in-laws forced me to move into their estate for "monitoring," I realized I was entering a cage. Garnett and his mistress were paying the family doctor to inject me with hallucinogens to mimic a mental breakdown. They planned to declare me legally incompetent and commit me to an asylum the second I gave birth.
I stood in the shadows of the East Wing, realizing my husband wasn't just stealing my child—he was trying to delete my mind. The people I called family were poisoning me daily, waiting for me to break so they could claim a legacy that wasn't even theirs.
They wanted a madwoman, so I decided to give them one. I turned the doctor into my double agent, faked every symptom of a breakdown, and began building a secret empire from the shadows. Garnett thinks he’s trapped an incubator, but he’s actually locked himself in with a nuclear weapon.
Incubator No More: The Billionaire's Secret Heir Chapter 1
Florence Boone sat on the velvet sofa in the VIP waiting room, her fingers twisting the leather strap of her Lafayette 148 bag until the circulation cut off. Her knuckles were white, a stark contrast to the deep cognac leather.
The air in the clinic smelled of expensive lavender and sanitized hope. It was a smell designed to mask the desperation that usually permeated fertility clinics, but today, Florence didn't feel desperate.
She felt electric.
Nurse Joy pushed open the heavy oak door. Her smile was practiced, professional, yet it reached her eyes today.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Livingston," Joy said, her voice light and airy. "Implantation was successful."
Florence felt her heart skip a beat, a physical thud against her ribs. The air left her lungs in a rush. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath.
Joy handed her the report. The paper was crisp, heavy. Florence took it, her hands trembling. It felt like holding a bomb and a diamond at the same time.
She looked at the numbers, the medical jargon, but all she saw was a future. A child. A reason to stay in this marriage. A reason to make it work with Garnett.
She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Garnett's contact. She wanted to call him. She wanted to hear his voice change from its usual indifference to excitement.
But then she stopped.
No, she thought. I want to see his face.
"Is Garnett still in the car?" Florence asked, standing up. Her legs felt unsteady, like she was walking on a boat.
Joy's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She glanced toward the hallway. "Mr. Livingston... he went to the VIP Lounge to take a call. Business, I assume."
Florence nodded, clutching the report to her chest. "Thank you, Joy."
She walked out of the waiting room. The carpet in the hallway was thick, swallowing the sound of her heels. It was quiet. Too quiet.
She approached the VIP Lounge at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, just a sliver of darkness cutting through the light of the hallway.
She raised her hand to knock. She was smiling.
"You're terrible, darling."
The voice stopped Florence's hand in mid-air. It was a laugh she knew. Low, throaty, amused.
Alison Yates.
Florence froze. Her blood turned to slush in her veins.
"Stop it, Alison," Garnett's voice replied. It wasn't his business voice. It was soft. Indulgent. A tone he hadn't used with Florence in years.
Florence lowered her hand. She stepped closer to the gap in the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"How much longer do we have to wait?" Alison complained. There was the sound of fabric rustling. "I hate thinking about her carrying our baby. It's gross."
Florence felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
"Don't worry," Garnett said. He chuckled, a cold, dismissive sound. "She's just an incubator."
The word hit Florence like a physical blow.
Incubator.
Not a wife. Not a mother. A vessel. A piece of machinery.
"Once the heir is born," Garnett continued, his voice smooth, "we kick her out. The trust fund only requires a legitimate heir born to my wife. It doesn't require the wife to stick around afterwards."
Florence felt the room spin. She bit down on her lip, hard. She tasted the metallic tang of blood. It was the only thing grounding her.
Through the crack, she saw them. Garnett was sitting on the leather couch, his hand stroking Alison's hair. He looked at his mistress with a look of adoration that Florence had starved for.
Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. But then, a coldness settled over her. It started in her marrow and spread outward, freezing the tears before they could fall.
She looked down at the paper in her hand. Successful Implantation.
She didn't storm in. She didn't scream. Screaming was for people who had hope. Florence had none left.
If she went in there now, she would lose. They would gaslight her. They would destroy her.
She took a breath, shaky and shallow. Then she took a step back. Then another.
She retreated down the hallway, her movements silent, ghostly. She reached the corner and leaned against the cold wall, gasping for air.
She wiped the corner of her eye with a precise, angry motion. She smoothed her dress. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She wasn't going to the car. She turned on her heel and walked toward Dr. Saunders' office.
She needed to know exactly what was inside her.
Continue Reading
Incubator No More: The Billionaire's Secret Heir of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.1
At sterlinggate university, only one rule matters:
Monsters do not belong.
Yuna never meant to become one.
After being publicly humiliated by her boyfriend , Yuna's emotions spiral out of control, she had a tough encounter with her bully, Megan, triggering a secret she was never meant to awaken. She isn't just a werewolf.
She is a kitsune.
A nine-tailed fox believed to be extinct.
A creature every wolf has been trained to hunt.
When her transformation is exposed, the university goes into lockdown. Hunters flood the campus. Silver charms are distributed. And one order is made clear:
"Kill the kitsune".
The only person willing to protect her is Noah Phillips,the star wolf of the university... and the son of the chief hunter leading the execution.
As danger closes in and her powers grow harder to control, Yuna must choose:
hide and survive, or rise and fight back.
Because if the wolves discover the truth...
They won't just kill her.
They'll start a war.
8.0
Elva used a spare key card to quietly enter the hotel penthouse, only to find her boyfriend of two years panting heavily on the king-sized bed with her own cousin.
Instead of showing remorse, her cousin shamelessly mocked her background, while her ex aggressively lunged at her to destroy the photographic evidence she had just captured.
"You think you can just walk away? Warren already made the deal. By next week, you're being shipped off to marry that fifty-two-year-old crippled freak from the Ramirez family!"
Her ex spat the words to threaten her, and the nightmare only escalated when Elva returned to her uncle's estate, where Warren confirmed he was indeed selling her off for a business connection.
Her family eagerly joined the abuse, threatening to permanently freeze her late mother's trust fund and even plotting to secretly drug her morning milk so she couldn't fight back when the groom's family arrived.
They looked at her like a pathetic, orphaned burden they could bleed dry, fully expecting her to drop to her knees, cry, and accept her miserable fate without a single word of defiance.
But they had no idea that just hours ago, Elva had already signed a marriage certificate with Bronson Ramirez, the undisputed billionaire king of the dynasty, and she was stepping into the living room ready to watch their greedy world burn.
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
8.3
Ayleen Ramirez sat in the sterile Hope Hill Fertility Clinic, her heart shattering as Dr. Finch delivered the crushing news: her third IVF cycle had failed.
Eavesdropping outside a supply closet, she overheard her husband Don on the phone, laughing cruelly. "She's a defective incubator," he sneered to his mistress Alessandra. "I never used my sperm—just cheap bank donation. No trailer trash carries a Bradley heir."
Betrayed, Ayleen confronted him, but her adoptive family ambushed her at home. Her parents and brother sided with Alessandra, now pregnant by Don, demanding Ayleen sign divorce papers to secure family investments. "You're an embarrassment," her mother snapped, threatening to cut her trust fund. Ayleen tossed back their heirloom necklace and walked out.
She stormed the Bradley mansion, slapped divorce papers on Don, packed her bags amid his aunt's insults, and fled into the night.
Drunk in a trendy bar, she stumbled into a powerful stranger—Burdette Guerrero—spilling whiskey on his crotch, then accidentally grabbed a napkin to his trousers. He shoved her away in rage.
Worse, she mistook his penthouse suite for her hotel room, bursting in on his shower, smashing a mirror in panic. He pinned her to the wall, snarling accusations.
How did this arrogant man know her name? Why demand she sign a mysterious contract at 9 a.m.? Devastated and clueless she's actually pregnant—with his stolen heir—Ayleen sobbed alone, the world crumbling.
The next morning, she straightened her spine in the Grand Guerrero lobby, ready to face him and demand answers—no matter the cost.
9.1
I stood alone at the marble altar, the silence of the temple pressing against my eardrums.
It was my Mating Ceremony, but the groom was missing.
My phone buzzed with a notification: a livestream of my mate, Alpha Cain, skipping our union to welcome my sister, Eris, home.
In the video, he held her like she was fragile glass, captioning it: "True power recognizes true power."
When I returned to the Pack House, humiliated, I wasn't met with an apology.
I was met with a slap from my mother.
Eris, feigning a powerful "Alpha Aura," claimed my mere scent was poisoning her.
To "save" her, my family locked me in my room.
But the true betrayal came when I overheard their hushed whispers through the door.
"Use Vera," my mother said, her voice chillingly practical.
"She recovers fast. We can drain her blood weekly for Eris. She can stay as a servant to raise Cain and Eris's pups."
My blood ran cold.
They didn't just neglect me; they planned to harvest me like livestock.
They thought I was the weak Omega they exiled to the North years ago to peel potatoes.
They had no idea that in the North, I wasn't a servant.
I was Commander V, a warrior forged in ice and blood.
I reached under my bed and pulled out my black tactical duffel.
"Screw the meatloaf," I whispered.
I wasn't just leaving. I was going to war.
9.0
Adaline Poole thought she had escaped her family's toxic corporate grip by moving to London and adopting a stray cat named Monty.
But when she returns to her empty apartment, her father delivers a chilling ultimatum: he has kidnapped the cat and will euthanize it by morning unless she accepts an arranged marriage with Barron Cooke, a notoriously elusive billionaire.
Her entire family becomes complicit in her sale. Her mother demands she secure their elite status, and her brother secretly spies on her social media to feed Barron her every move. Horrified to discover Barron is a thirty-three-year-old "fossil" twelve years her senior, Adaline resorts to sabotage. She goes to a Soho club, takes a scandalous photo with a frat boy, and sends it to the old billionaire to disgust him into canceling their upcoming dinner.
But her rebellion backfires horribly when the frat boy spikes her drink with a powerful narcotic. As her body burns with a terrifying, feverish heat, she collapses in a dark corridor. Stripped of her phone and betrayed by her bloodline, she is left utterly defenseless as a predator approaches to drag her away.
Suddenly, the heavy fire door is kicked open by a towering, terrifyingly handsome stranger who effortlessly neutralizes her attacker.
"Please... help me," Adaline begs, deliriously throwing her burning body into his arms.
She has absolutely no idea that the handsome savior she is clinging to is Barron Cooke himself.
