Incubator No More: The Billionaire's Secret Heir
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.
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Chapter 7
The interior of the Maybach was silent. The partition was up.
Garnett was staring at Florence's wrist. The emeralds caught the passing streetlights.
"Grandmother gave you the Emerald Cuff," he said. His voice was tight. "That's worth half a million dollars."
"Is that all you see?" Florence asked. She unclasped the bracelet and dropped it into her purse. "It's heavy. It hurts my wrist."
"Put it back on," Garnett snapped. "It shows status. It shows you're accepted."
"I don't need jewelry to feel accepted, Garnett. I'm carrying your child. Isn't that enough?"
Garnett looked away, out the window. "You're ungrateful. Just like your family."
Florence felt the anger bubble up, but she shoved it down. She clutched her stomach and let out a small groan.
"Ouch," she whispered.
Garnett whipped his head around. "What? What is it?"
"Just a cramp," Florence said, grimacing. "The dinner... maybe something didn't agree with me."
"Driver!" Garnett yelled. "Slow down! Avoid the potholes!"
He turned back to Florence, his face pale. "Are you okay? Do we need to go to the hospital?"
He was terrified. Not for her. For the asset inside her.
"I think I just need to rest," Florence said. "But... I need my things from the apartment. My sketchbooks. My tools. If I'm going to be stuck at the Estate, I need something to do."
"Fine," Garnett said. "We'll stop at the apartment. Just be quick."
Inside the apartment, Florence moved fast. She didn't go for the sketchbooks immediately.
She went to the safe in the study. She punched in the code. She retrieved a small, burner SIM card she had hidden inside a hollowed-out book two years ago.
She swapped the SIM into her phone. It booted up.
She dialed a number she hadn't called since her wedding day.
"Who is this?" A woman's voice answered. Lazy, annoyed.
"It's me, Sloane," Florence said. Her voice changed. It became deeper, more authoritative. "Vivian."
There was silence on the line. Then, a screech. "Vivian? You're alive? We thought you died! The art world has been mourning 'W' for two years!"
"I'm back," Florence said. "But I need to be invisible."
"Sotheby's has an autumn auction," Sloane said, her voice rapid-fire. "They are desperate for a headliner. If you have anything..."
"I have a collection," Florence said. "Jewelry designs. And sketches. I'll send you the digital files tonight. The name is still Vivian. The artist is still W."
"The commission?" Sloane asked.
"Put it in the offshore account. The Caymans one."
"Done. God, it's good to hear your voice. You ready to set the world on fire again?"
"I'm ready to burn it all down," Florence said.
She hung up. She swapped the SIM card back.
She grabbed a stack of old sketchbooks from the shelf.
She walked out into the living room. Garnett was pacing, checking his watch.
"Took you long enough," he grumbled. "Let's go. Mother is waiting."
Florence held the sketchbooks against her chest. Inside them were the designs that would make her millions. Millions that Garnett couldn't touch.
"I'm ready," she said.
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7.5
After my boyfriend of four years publicly humiliated me at a charity gala, calling me a "charity case," I drowned my sorrows at a dive bar and had a one-night stand with a stranger.
I woke up the next morning in a luxury hotel suite to find out the stranger was Christian Porter, the most ruthless billionaire on Wall Street.
Worse, paparazzi had photographed us leaving the bar. He coldly informed me that the photos would create a scandal that could tank his company's upcoming IPO, costing him hundreds of millions. As if my world wasn't collapsing fast enough, I got a call that my younger brother had been arrested for assaulting my ex in my defense.
Christian didn't want my apology; he wanted a solution. He slammed a prenuptial agreement on the table in front of me.
He gave me an ultimatum: sign a two-year marriage contract to turn the scandal into a corporate fairy tale, or he would ruin me. Trapped, I agreed. But when my furious brother confronted him at the police station, Christian looked him dead in the eye and said something that left me breathless.
"I didn't marry her to solve a problem," he said, his voice echoing in the small room. "I married her because I've been in love with her for ten years."
7.6
I was the ultimate trophy wife, a polished ornament in Francisco Zimmerman’s billionaire empire. For three years, I perfected the "Zimmerman Wife Smile," playing the role of the devoted partner while smoothing the Egyptian cotton of his shirts.
The illusion shattered when I stood outside his study and heard him laughing with his mistress, Annalise.
"She’s just a vase that only knows how to smile," Francisco’s voice was cold, devoid of any warmth. "As long as I pay the maintenance fees on time, she stays obedient."
I walked out that night with nothing but a canvas bag and the clothes on my back. But Francisco wasn't finished with his "asset." He froze my bank accounts and used his massive influence to blacklist me from every interior design firm in New York. He tracked my phone, watching me struggle from the shadows, waiting for me to starve so I would crawl back to his mansion.
He even showed up at the dive bar where I was playing piano for rent money, mocking my desperation.
"You have technique, but no heart," he sneered, tossing a silver coin into my tip jar as if I were a beggar. "You're hollow, Iris. Just like your pride."
I couldn't believe this was the same man whose life I had saved during a bloody night in Macau. To him, I wasn't a wife; I was a stock price that needed stabilizing. The more I fought for my independence, the tighter he pulled the net, determined to break my spirit until I had no choice but to return to his gilded cage.
Then, the morning sickness hit. I realized I wasn't just carrying my own life anymore—I was carrying his heir. If Francisco found out, he would never let us go; he would turn my child into another "performance bonus" for his brand.
Looking at the sonogram, I knew a divorce would never be enough to escape a man who thought he owned the world.
"I'm not going back," I whispered, staring at his yacht moored in the harbor. "To save this baby, Iris Potter has to die."
8.8
I lived in the shadow of the Randolph estate, a scholarship girl who spent years calling the heir of the family "brother." I thought the cold distance between us was my protection, a boundary that would keep me safe in a world of wealth and power.
Then I woke up on the thick Persian rug of his private study, my body aching and my mind fractured by disjointed, violent memories of whiskey and his scorching touch. Panic flooded my chest as I scrambled to cover myself with a discarded blouse, desperately stammering that it was a mistake, a drunken lapse in judgment.
But Hunter sat on the sofa, unbothered and terrifyingly sober. He watched me with eyes that lacked any hint of the haze that clouded my own.
"I wasn't drunk, Herminia."
The air left the room. He had been fully aware while I was lost in the smoke. Before I could flee, he caught me, his fingers digging into my waist with a grip that felt more like a claim than a rescue. A dark purple bruise bloomed on my neck—a mark of possession that meant my life was over if our mother, Barbara, ever saw it.
Instead of letting me go, Hunter used my terror to tighten the noose. He manipulated Barbara into moving me to the East Wing, his private sector where no staff were allowed and every door was a dead end. I became a prisoner in a silk-lined cage, watched by bodyguards he hired to "protect" me from the very scandal he created.
At breakfast, I had to sit in silence as Barbara planned his marriage to a wealthy heiress, all while his foot pressed possessively against my leg under the table. He wanted a perfect wife for the cameras and me hidden in his wing as his "common distraction." He even tasted the blood from my wounded finger, whispering that I was his.
I looked at the high lace collar hiding my shame and the bars on my beautiful windows. My "brother" was a predator who had bought everyone I trusted, from the maids to my own assistant.
As the florists began delivering lilies for his engagement party, I realized I was standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss, and the only person holding the key to my cage was the monster who wanted to consume me.
8.3
I never thought I could find myself sucking the dìck of a man I should call father and made him moan out so loud. I found myself going back to have him finger and pound my clit, ripping moans off my throat as day passed by. I found myself moaning to him every single day, taking all his sexual command and fantasies, being daddy's naughty girl and wishing for nothing other than his 8 inches dick buried deep into my wet clit.
I grew up invisible, the illegitimate daughter of a woman who valued status more than motherhood. While she chased elite society, I learned to survive on my own, retreating into art and quiet fantasies of being chosen by someone who would finally see my worth.
Everything changes when my mother marries Calder Rhys, a billionaire widower seeking stability, not love. Thrust into a world of wealth and rigid expectations, I moved into the Rhys mansion and met Wells, Calder's polished and charismatic son. Drawn to him despite knowing he is unavailable, I mistake attention for affection, unaware that my longing is about to pull me into something far more dangerous.
A single mistake blurs boundaries that should never be crossed.
Caught between a mother who sees me as a liability, an elite society eager to destroy me, and a man whose influence could either protect or ruin me, I must decide who I want to become.
7.7
Kiara Watson had lived an unhappy life with her family, always overshadowed by her sister, Cloe, who stole all the attention with her beauty.
However, Kiara's fate took an unexpected turn when, by mistake and out of obligation, she found herself linked to Archie Villarreal, the man who caused a sensation in the most powerful family, the Villarreals.
A dirty trick by Cloe awakened the fury of billionaire Archie. For Kiara, being Cloe's twin became her greatest sin.
She received cruel punishment from Archie, who would do everything in his power to keep her from escaping, creating a stormy and passionate game of love and vehemence.
9.3
Holly handed her billionaire husband, Crawford, a divorce agreement after three years of a freezing, loveless marriage.
He signed it arrogantly, but then immediately suspended the proceedings, forcing her to act as his loving wife just to stimulate his fragile, wheelchair-bound ex-lover, Delphine.
When his mother humiliated Holly for failing to produce an heir, Holly discovered Crawford was secretly reviewing Delphine's fertility reports.
Seeking refuge, Holly returned to her hidden identity as the star stage dancer "Nyx," but Crawford tracked her down and destroyed her only dream.
"If you ever step on a stage again, I will make sure your dance partner never finds work in America."
Driven by insane possessiveness, he forced her to sign a suffocating NDA and threw a million-dollar trust fund at her abusive adoptive mother just to buy Holly's total submission.
Crushed under his absolute wealth and control, Holly felt a chilling realization.
Why was Crawford so obsessed with trapping her while clearly loving another woman?
Why did her greedy adoptive mother sell her to the Morris family in the first place?
Sitting in the sports car he just threw at her as compensation, Holly pulled out a hidden burner phone.
"Start digging into Barbra's financial history from twenty years ago. I need a thread to pull."
She was going to uncover the truth and fight back.