Pregnant With The Ruthless Billionaire's Secret

The wave of nausea hit her without warning. One moment, Aubree Hamilton was staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror of Le Ciel's restroom, and the next, she was lurching into a marble stall, her stomach clenching violently. She gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, her body convulsing in a series of dry, racking heaves. Nothing came up. There was nothing to come up. It's the wine, she told herself, pressing a clammy hand to her forehead. The cheap bottle of Pinot Grigio she'd had last night. A hangover. That had to be it. But the excuse felt thin, worn out. This feeling-this churning, sour sickness-had been her unwelcome companion for days. She finally pushed herself up, her legs unsteady, and faced the mirror again. The woman staring back was a ghost. Her skin was pale, her professional smile replaced by a tight, drawn line. Dark circles bloomed beneath her eyes, stark against her pallor. She looked nothing like the top-tier executive assistant to one of Wall Street's most formidable titans. A dizzy spell washed over her, and she gripped the edge of the marble sink to steady herself. The polished surface was cool against her trembling fingers. In the pristine reflection, the elegant restroom dissolved, replaced by an image that seared itself behind her eyelids. A hotel suite, a month ago. Rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The scent of expensive linen and something else-something uniquely him. Beck Franco's bare chest, muscles defined in the dim light. The unrestrained fire in his deep gray eyes as he looked at her. She shook her head, a sharp, violent motion, as if to physically dislodge the memory. A knot of regret and pure, unadulterated fear tightened in her gut. It was a mistake. A single, catastrophic mistake. She'd taken care of it. The thought was a desperate mantra. She had walked to the 24-hour pharmacy the next morning, her hands shaking as she paid for the little white box. She had taken the pill. There would be no consequences. There couldn't be. Her phone buzzed on the counter, pulling her violently back to the present. A message from Paige, her friend and fellow assistant. "He's back! Beck's jet just landed!" Aubree's heart didn't just sink. It plummeted, a dead weight dropping through her stomach and into the floor. A month. He'd been in Europe for a whole month. A blessed, thirty-day reprieve that had just ended. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. She straightened her black blazer, smoothed down her pencil skirt. She was a professional. She needed this job. The salary, the benefits, the apartment it paid for-it was her entire life. She could not get fired. Composed, or at least faking it, she walked out of the restroom and back to her table. Across from her sat Julian Fletcher, the executive assistant to Alistair Rhodes-Prescott. He was a familiar face from her university days, all polished charm and ambition. He smiled as she sat down. "Everything okay?" "Just a bit of a headache," she lied, forcing a smile of her own. He pushed a beautifully wrapped, slender box across the table. It was heavy, expensive. "A little something for your boss," he said, his tone casual but his eyes intent. "Alistair wanted to send a signal of goodwill." Inside, she knew, would be a limited-edition fountain pen or some other absurdly expensive trinket. "I was hoping you could give it to him," Julian continued. "Everyone knows you're the one person he actually trusts." The words were meant as a compliment, but they felt like a death sentence. The last thing on earth she wanted to do was face Beck Franco. "I'm sorry, Julian, but Mr. Franco doesn't accept gifts," she said, her voice tight. It was a well-known rule. Julian's smile faltered. "Aubree, please. Alistair is... insistent. It would make me look really bad if I can't even get this through the door." She felt the weight of his plea, the unspoken rules of their world. Favors were currency. Alliances were everything. He was putting her in an impossible position. Her stomach churned again. She looked at the box, then at his hopeful face. With a sense of dread so profound it felt like swallowing glass, she took it. It felt like a bomb in her hands. Back at the Franco Enterprises headquarters, the air on the 50th floor was different. It was still, charged, like the air before a lightning strike. He was here. You could feel it. Paige intercepted her by the elevators, her eyes wide. "He's in a black mood," she whispered. "Just tore the head of investment banking a new one. Said his ten-year-old nephew could have made a better projection." The bomb in Aubree's hands felt heavier. She walked the long, silent corridor to his corner office. She felt like a prisoner on her final walk. The massive mahogany doors loomed before her. Just as she was about to raise her hand to knock, the door opened and Alex Nash, Beck's senior aide, stepped out. His face was grim, his shoulders tight. He looked like he'd just survived a hurricane. An idea-a last-ditch, desperate plan-sparked in Aubree's mind. "Alex," she said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Can you help me out?" She held up the gift. "This is from Rhodes-Prescott. Could you possibly-" Alex looked from the box in her hands to the closed door, then back at her. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated pity. It was the look you give someone you know is about to be devoured. "Sorry, Aubree," he said, his voice barely audible. "He was specific. He wants to see the person who brought it. Personally." The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Another wave of nausea washed over her, hot and acidic. She swallowed it down, forcing it back. It's just stress, she told herself. It's only stress. There was no escape. She took a deep breath, the air feeling thin and useless in her lungs. She raised a trembling hand and knocked on the solid wood that separated her from the man who could ruin her life with a single word. A moment of silence, then a voice from within. Cold, deep, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Come in."