Pregnant And Fleeing The Ruthless Billionaire

The warrior queen who had made a vow at her parents' grave woke up the next morning as a woman retching into a porcelain toilet. Morning sickness hit her with the force of a physical assault. The steely resolve was still there, a cold, hard stone in her gut, but it was surrounded by a churning sea of nausea. Any scent-the coffee brewing in the kitchen, the soap in the bathroom, the very air in the apartment-was a trigger. She sent a brief, professional email to Grant Fletcher. "Feeling unwell. I will be taking a sick day." It was the first sick day she had taken in five years. She knew it would look like a deliberate act of defiance, a petty delay. She didn't care. She needed a day to get her body under her control. Lying on the couch, a cool cloth on her forehead, she forced herself to open her tablet. She pulled up the files on the Wexler Technology acquisition. It was Taylor Corp's biggest pending deal, a multi-billion-dollar play to dominate the AI sector. She had only handled peripheral data analysis for it, but she had a gut feeling it was where Armand would choose to apply pressure. She needed to be prepared. The call came that afternoon. Grant Fletcher's voice was colder than usual. "Jodi, Mr. Taylor expects you in the office. Immediately." She pressed the cool glass of water she was holding to her temple. "I'm on sick leave, Grant." A humorless scoff. "Your timing is remarkable. Ms. Pruitt has been waiting for two days." Then, his voice became muffled, and another, more dangerous one cut through the line, clearly on speakerphone. "Tell her if she is not in this building in one hour, she will be in breach of contract," Armand snarled. "She can read the penalty clause for that herself." In the background, Jodi heard a distinct, sharp crash. The sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall. Grant's voice returned, strained. "There was an issue with one of the hedge funds this morning. A nine-figure loss. Mr. Taylor is not in the mood for games." Jodi closed her eyes. Of course. A setback in his empire, so the emperor needed to crush a rebellion in his personal life to feel powerful again. She was the nearest, easiest target for his rage. She knew she couldn't delay any longer. Pushing him now would only result in more extreme, more dangerous retaliation. She had to finish this handover. She had to get her assets unfrozen. She had to get out. She took a deep breath, fighting down a wave of sickness. "Tell him I'm on my way." She hung up and pushed herself off the couch, her body protesting. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the pale, hollow-eyed woman looking back at her. This was not the face of a warrior. She opened her makeup bag. This was a different kind of armor. She meticulously applied concealer under her eyes, a touch of color to her cheeks, a neutral, determined shade on her lips. She covered the evidence of her body's betrayal. Next, her clothes. She chose a black sheath dress with a matching blazer. The lines were clean, severe, and powerful. Her last preparation was in the kitchen. She took a lemon from the fridge and sliced off a thin piece. The sharp, acidic scent helped quell the nausea. She put the slice in a small plastic baggie, along with a few plain soda crackers. Her secret weapons. She slipped them into her handbag, took one last look in the mirror, and walked out the door. The cab ride to Midtown was a battle of mind over matter. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, mentally reviewing the Wexler files, refusing to let the sickness win. The taxi pulled up to the familiar glass and steel monolith of the Taylor Corp building. For five years, it had been her prison. Today, she was walking in to pick the lock. She pushed the car door open, stepped onto the pavement, and lifted her chin. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face, but she didn't falter. She walked through the revolving doors, her heels clicking on the marble floor like the steady, rhythmic beat of a war drum.