Pregnant Oracle: The CEO's Most Dangerous Mistake

The stirrups were cold against her heels, a biting chill that seeped through the thin paper gown and settled deep into her bones. Anona Blanchard stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains to keep from screaming. One looks like a bruised lung. Another like a drowning face. Done. The nurse snapped her latex gloves off, the sound like a rubber band snapping against raw skin. Anona didn't move. She couldn't. Her lower abdomen throbbed, a dull, invasive ache where they had just planted the future of Caldwell Holdings. You can get dressed, Mrs. Caldwell. The nurse didn't look at her. She was busy updating a digital chart, her face illuminated by the blue light of the tablet. The transfer is complete. Anona sat up too quickly. The room spun. She gripped the edge of the examination table, her knuckles turning the color of old bone. Is that it? Anona asked, her voice raspy. The nurse finally glanced up, her expression flat. The asset is in place. You have your instructions regarding bed rest. The asset. Not a baby. Not a child. An asset. Anona slid off the table. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, someone weaker. She walked to the small changing area behind the curtain. Her hands shook as she buttoned her blouse. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but her eyes were dark, burning with a cold fire. She remembered Alexander's voice from the night before, swirling in her head like toxic smoke. This is the only reason you are here, Anona. Do not fail me. She pulled her lipstick from her purse. Ruby Woo. She applied it like war paint, a slash of red across a canvas of white. She walked out of the clinic without waiting for the discharge papers. The wind on the street hit her face, carrying the scent of exhaust and wet pavement. Her driver wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. Alexander liked to make her wait. She raised a hand and hailed a yellow cab. Caldwell Tower, she told the driver. She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had memorized but never saved. It's done, she said when the line clicked open. A pause. Are you sure, Anona? Once we start this... Print the papers, Arthur. Plan B. I'm going to see him now. She hung up. Her hand rested on her stomach. There was nothing there yet, just a cluster of cells and a contract, but she felt a fierce, terrifying protectiveness rise in her throat. Alexander Caldwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, looking down at Manhattan as if it were a game board he had already won. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. Repeat that. The voice on the other end was static-filled but unmistakable. Harrison Sterling. His uncle. The man who actually held the leash Alexander liked to pretend didn't exist. There was a protocol breach at the lab, Alexander. A catastrophic one. A high-value sample was compromised. Alexander felt a drop of sweat slide down his spine. His grip on his phone tightened until the screen protector cracked. That's impossible, Alexander said, his voice low. The donor was anonymous. Third party. It was supposed to be. But their security is a sieve. Find out which sample was swapped and who the recipient was. If a Sterling heir has been planted in some random surrogate, you better fix it. That bloodline does not go to waste. Alexander's mind raced. If Harrison found out the "random surrogate" was Anona-his own wife-the merger was dead. His inheritance was dead. The breach itself was a disaster, but Harrison knowing he'd used his own wife as the vessel for an anonymous donor was a death sentence. I'll handle it, Alexander said. I'll track down the recipient. The product will be terminated. Do not call a Sterling a product, Harrison snapped. Find the woman. Alexander ended the call. He turned around, his face a mask of controlled fury. The heavy oak doors to his office swung open. His secretary stammered an apology, but Anona was already inside. She looked like a ghost dressed in Chanel. Her black suit was sharp enough to cut glass, and her red lips were a wound. You're supposed to be in bed, Alexander said, checking his watch. Incubating my investment. Anona walked to his desk. She didn't sit. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick document, bound in blue legal paper. She threw it onto the mahogany surface. It slid across the polished wood and stopped inches from his hand. Alexander looked down. DIVORCE SETTLEMENT. He let out a short, dry laugh. Is this a joke? Hormones kicking in already? Anona leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk. Her eyes locked onto his. The contract is breached, Alexander. I'm done being your show pony. I'm done being your broodmare. Alexander picked up the document. He didn't even open it. He walked over to the industrial shredder in the corner of the room and fed the papers into the mouth of the machine. The grinding noise filled the silence, violent and final. He turned back to her, dusting his hands. You signed the prenup, Anona. Page forty-two. You don't get to leave. You don't get to breathe unless I say so. Anona didn't flinch. She watched the confetti of her freedom fill the bin. We'll see, she said softly. We'll see whose stock crashes first.