Not Just An Incubator: The Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge
Ten minutes. That was how close I was to handing my fiancé the keys to a three-hundred-million-dollar empire built on my code.
But when I walked into the office, his mistress was sitting in my chair, spinning the pen I bought him for our anniversary.
Caleb didn't even look up. He told me the investors wanted stability, not a pregnant woman. He called our unborn child a "liability" and ordered security to escort me out of the building I paid for.
I went home to pack, only to find a burner phone hidden in the closet. The texts were brutal. He called me an "incubator." He said once the deal was signed, he’d take the baby and dump the "nerd."
When he caught me with the phone, he didn't apologize. He dragged me by my hair and threw me into the soundproof panic room to keep me quiet until the deal closed.
"Caleb, please! I'm bleeding!"
I pounded on the steel door until my hands were raw. But he just locked it and went to eat pizza with his mistress.
Alone in the dark, on the freezing concrete, I felt the life inside me slip away. He hadn't just stolen my company; he had killed my child.
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just "the help." But he forgot one thing: I built the security system he was trying to sell.
Three days later, I rolled my wheelchair into his victory press conference, flanked by his biggest rival.
"Do you trust your new code, Caleb?"
"Because I wrote the backdoor. And I just opened it."
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Chapter 4
Brooke Myers POV
The rain had intensified, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Penthouse with a violence that matched the storm inside my chest.
I punched the code into the keypad. The light flashed green. He hadn't changed it yet. Arrogance, pure and simple. He thought I was too broken to ever come back.
The apartment was silent, submerged in a heavy, suffocating stillness. It smelled of the climate-controlled chill and the lingering, cloying scent of Caleb's cologne-sandalwood and betrayal.
I walked into the living room.
It felt like a museum dedicated to a life that had been extinguished. The photos on the mantle, freezing us in a happiness that was now a lie. The cashmere throw we had bought in Aspen, draped over the sofa. A half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the counter, as if waiting for a toast that would never come.
But I didn't have time to mourn.
I moved quickly, heading straight for the server room at the back of the office. My hands didn't shake as I pulled the hard drives from the rack, stuffing them into my waterproof bag. These drives contained the metadata, the undeniable proof of ownership for the Apex System. They were my leverage, and my lifeline.
I moved to the bedroom to pack a bag. Just the essentials. I needed to be a ghost.
I threw open the closet doors.
My clothes had been shoved aggressively to one side. In their place, Krystal's cheap, flashy dresses hung in my space, claiming territory that wasn't hers.
I grabbed a suitcase and started throwing things in-jeans, sweaters, anything I could reach.
Then I saw it.
On the top shelf, hidden behind a stack of winter woolens. A shoe box labeled "Legacy."
I pulled it down, the cardboard cool against my fingertips.
Inside, nestling in tissue paper, was a burner phone.
I knew Caleb had secrets. In this life, everyone had secrets. But a burner phone in a box labeled "Legacy"? That was specific. That was calculated.
I turned it on. I knew the passcode immediately. It was his birthday. Narcissist.
The messages loaded, a stream of blue bubbles.
They were all from a number saved simply as "K."
I scrolled back. Three months. Six months. A year.
K: When are you going to dump the nerd?
Caleb: Soon, baby. I just need the code to be finished.
K: She's getting suspicious.
Caleb: Let her be suspicious. She's too in love to see straight.
K: What about the brat?
Caleb: The incubator? Don't worry. Once the deal is signed, I'll cut her loose. The kid can go to boarding school in Switzerland. You'll be the mother.
The incubator.
The word hung in the stale air, heavy and suffocating. It wrapped around my throat.
He hadn't just cheated. He had harvested me. He had used my body to grow his heir and my brain to build his empire, planning to discard the husk the moment he had extracted what he needed.
I felt the bile rise, hot and acidic. I ran to the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet, and vomited until there was nothing left but dry heaves.
I sat back on the cold tile floor, clutching the phone like a lifeline, or a weapon.
The tears finally came. Not soft, cinematic tears. Ugly, heaving sobs that tore at my chest and echoed off the marble walls.
I had loved a ghost. I had built a life on a foundation of rot.
Slowly, the sobbing stopped. The pain didn't leave, but it crystallized into something harder. Something sharper.
I wiped my face.
I stood up.
I forwarded every single text message to my encrypted cloud server. Then, for good measure, I sent a copy to Easton's secure drop box.
I walked back into the bedroom.
I picked up my favorite lipstick from the vanity-a deep, blood red. I uncapped it and walked to the portrait of Caleb that hung arrogantly over the bed.
With a steady hand, I drew a target right on his forehead.
Then, the silence was shattered.
The electronic chirp of the front door.
My heart stopped.
"Babe?" Caleb's voice echoed from the hallway, casual, confident. "Why are the lights on?"
"Probably the cleaning lady," Krystal's voice, shrill and close.
I froze.
I was trapped.
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8.9
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8.9
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I'm Amara Blake. At home, I'm nothing.
The unwanted daughter.
The mistake forced to live in her sister's shadow. A living Donor. A spare part to my sister. Scorned by my mother, hated by my father, reminded daily that my only worth is keeping myself "pure" for Nina's sake.
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Professor Black doesn't see me as a burden.
He sees me as temptation.
A secret waiting to be ruined.
Every time I walk into his office, I feel the weight of his gaze...hungry, dangerous, claiming. I shouldn't want him. I shouldn't crave the way his voice curls against my skin like a promise of sin.
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9.7
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The Rogue leader gave my Alpha, Harrison, three seconds to choose who lived.
Without hesitation, he commanded, "Save Brooke."
I was gutted with a silver blade and left to bleed out on the carpet while he cradled her.
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Years ago, when I miscarried our actual child alone on the bathroom floor, begging for him through the mind-link, he hadn't just ignored me—he had blocked me to pick up his mistress.
The boat exploded, turning the ocean into fire. Harrison stood on the cliff, watching me burn, satisfied that his problem was gone.
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7.2
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