The CEO's Runaway Pregnant Architect
For five years, I was the invisible force behind my charismatic architect boyfriend's empire, painstakingly designing the dream home we built together.
But for the eighteenth time, Jayson canceled adding my name to the deed, rushing out on our candlelit dinner for yet another "critical emergency" with his young, attractive mentee, Ciera.
He left me alone at our custom dining table, blindly prioritizing her manufactured crises over our future. Hours later, Ciera posted a photo on Instagram. She was sitting in his executive chair, wearing his unbuttoned dress shirt, with two empty wine glasses on the desk. When I finally confronted him the next morning, he didn't apologize. Instead, he looked at me with arrogant amusement.
"Where are you going to go, Allison? Without me? Without this firm? Don't forget, I made you!"
My love didn't die in a sudden explosion; it bled out drop by drop over eighteen broken promises. I had poured my soul into his success, only to be treated like a disposable asset in my own home. To make the irony even more suffocating, a plastic stick in my bathroom soon revealed two stark red lines. I was pregnant with his child.
I didn't cry, and I certainly didn't use the baby to beg for his love. Instead, I packed a single suitcase, accepted a senior role at his biggest rival firm in London, and left a resignation letter on his desk. This time, I am building an empire of my own.
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Chapter 4
Allison Knapp POV
The next morning, I arrived at the firm earlier than usual. The glass and steel edifice of Sterling & Finch, a monument to architectural ambition, felt different today. It wasn't the vibrant hub of shared dreams it once was; it was merely a place, a stepping stone. My steps were light, purposeful, carrying a quiet resolve.
I walked straight to HR, my portfolio clutched in my hand. Sarah, the head of human resources, a kind woman with shrewd eyes, looked up, surprised to see me. "Allison? You're in early. Everything okay?"
I smiled, a genuine, if somewhat sad, smile. "Everything is perfectly okay, Sarah. I'm here to hand in my resignation." I placed the neatly typed letter on her desk. The words were simple, professional, stating my intention to leave the firm at the end of the month.
Sarah picked up the letter, her brows knitting in confusion. She read it once, then again, her gaze darting between the paper and my face. "Resignation? Allison, this is... unexpected. You and Jayson, you're the backbone of this place. The power couple. And your new house—" She trailed off, searching for an explanation.
"What about Jayson?" she asked, her voice hushed, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Is he leaving too? Is this about something with the firm? You two always seemed so solid, the perfect match."
I heard the unspoken questions in her voice, the echoes of what everyone in our professional and social circles believed. We were the golden couple, the architects who built their own dream home, the epitome of success and commitment. I remembered the housewarming party just a few weeks ago, the toasts, the laughter, the admiring glances. Everyone had seen us as the ultimate, unshakeable partnership. It was a beautiful façade, meticulously constructed.
I thought of the sparkling champagne flutes, the congratulatory hugs, Jayson's arm around my waist, his proud smile. He had called me his "partner in everything," his "better half." The words had felt warm then, real. Now, they felt like a cruel irony, a hollow echo in the vast emptiness of my heart. The "ultimate commitment" was still perfectly poised on paper, an unfulfilled promise.
"Jayson is staying," I replied, my voice steady. "This is just about me. I've accepted a position elsewhere." I offered no further details, no hint of the quiet devastation that had led me to this decision. It wasn't Sarah's burden to carry, nor was it Jayson's to fully comprehend yet.
Sarah looked at me, her expression a mix of bewilderment and respect. She knew me well enough to sense the quiet finality in my tone. She processed the paperwork efficiently, her movements a blur of professionalism. There were no emotional pleas, no attempts to persuade me to stay. She simply accepted my decision, a quiet acknowledgment of my unshakeable resolve.
After completing the formalities, I gathered my personal items from my office—a small box of cherished memories, a few architectural awards. The office, once a place of shared ambition, now felt sterile, impersonal. I walked out of Sterling & Finch for the last time as an employee, a lightness in my step I hadn't felt in years.
I arrived home, to the house that was not truly mine, in the late afternoon. The silence enveloped me the moment I stepped inside. Jayson was, predictably, not there. His car was gone. His usual late-night work sessions with Ciera had become his new normal, his chosen reality.
I pulled out my phone. A new post from Ciera Mason. My fingers automatically tapped the icon. Her latest Instagram story showed her, bright-eyed and smiling, next to a weary-looking Jayson, both hunched over blueprints late at night. The caption read: "Burning the midnight oil with the best mentor ever! #MeridianTower #DreamTeam #ArchitectureLife." It was a familiar narrative, carefully curated for public consumption, painting a picture of intense collaboration and undeniable chemistry. She had even tagged Jayson prominently.
My eyes scanned the comments, a mix of admiring colleagues and envious peers. "You two are crushing it!" "Such dedication!" "Goals!" I knew Jayson would be home late, if at all. He had done this countless times before. Her "emergencies" always extended into the deep hours, demanding his full attention, his unwavering support. And he always gave it, freely, without question, without hesitation.
I put my phone down, a faint smile touching my lips. It was a smile of recognition, not pain. I knew this playbook. He would be home around two in the morning, perhaps later, smelling of stale coffee and the cloying sweetness of Ciera's desperation. He would offer a mumbled apology, a vague promise to "make it up to me," and then fall into a deep, oblivious sleep.
I wouldn't be there to hear it.
Instead of cooking dinner, I ordered takeout—a simple pad thai, something easy, something for one. I ate it slowly, mindfully, savoring each bite, no longer waiting, no longer hoping for a shared meal. This was my life now, chosen by me, for me.
After dinner, I opened my laptop, navigating to the saved email from the London firm. The offer was impressive: a Senior Design Architect role at a prestigious international practice. It was a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to build something new, unburdened by past disappointments.
I accepted the offer, my finger hovering over the "confirm" button for a moment, then pressing down with a decisive click. A surge of exhilarating fear and potent excitement coursed through me. London. A new continent, a new city, a world away from Jayson and Ciera and the suffocating echoes of broken promises.
Next, I booked a one-way flight. Two weeks from now. Enough time to pack my life into two suitcases, to tie up loose ends, to make my quiet exit. I chose London not just for the professional opportunity, but for the distance, the complete severance from a life that had become emotionally sterile. It was a statement, a declaration of independence.
I looked around the house, the walls still echoing with ghosts of architects and lovers, of dreams deferred and promises broken. My decision was firm, unyielding. I was leaving the shadow of a relationship that had diminished me, stepping into the bright, uncertain expanse of a future I would build solely for myself. Each click, each confirmation, was a brick in the foundation of my new, self-authored life.
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8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
7.1
For six years, I played the pathetic, wolfless Omega to honor the dying wish of the late Alpha who protected me.
But on our sixth anniversary, my fated mate, Alpha Kian, was photographed looking tenderly at his mistress.
When he finally stormed into our penthouse, he didn't apologize. Instead, he threw a fifty-million-dollar check onto the bed.
"Take the money and accept my rejection obediently, or I'll show you what happens when you defy an Alpha."
To force my compliance, he terminated all trade agreements with my best friend's pack, pushing them to the brink of bankruptcy. He accused me of blackmailing his grandfather into our marriage, entirely blind to the fact that his beloved mistress was actually a banished, feral Rogue.
I had spent six years swallowing my pride, drinking toxic herbs to suppress my true White Wolf scent, and enduring his absolute disgust just to keep his pack safe.
Why did I bleed for a man who despised my very existence?
I looked at the blood money, and the suffocating sorrow in my chest was instantly replaced by white-hot fury.
I didn't take a single cent. Instead, I submitted the rejection papers myself, dropped my pathetic disguise, and walked out into the freezing rain.
A towering warrior with a black umbrella dropped to one knee before me in the mud.
It was time to stop hiding and return home as the billionaire heir of the legendary Silvermoon Pack.
8.9
Seraphina, a broke single mother of triplets, snuck into a billionaire's charity gala just for the free food, desperate to fund her daughter's urgent heart surgery.
But her genius five-year-old son secretly hacked the gala's raffle system, thrusting them directly under the spotlight. The untouchable billionaire host, Donovan Vance, froze when he saw the star-shaped birthmark on her wrist—the exact same mark from a dark hotel room five years ago.
Cornered, Seraphina was forced into a five-million-dollar marriage contract to appease Donovan's dying father and secure his corporate empire. She swallowed her pride, took the money to save her daughter, and moved into the penthouse. But Donovan's obsessive childhood friend, Gwendolyn, immediately targeted her. She humiliated Seraphina for her poverty and violently grabbed her in the foyer.
"I dare you to get a DNA test. When the world finds out they're not his, he'll throw you into the street himself!"
Gwendolyn's vicious threat made Seraphina's blood run cold. She was suffocating in sheer panic. She didn't even know if Donovan was actually the father. If a test proved he wasn't, she would be destroyed, and her daughter would lose her only lifeline.
But to her absolute horror, Donovan's father overheard the threat and ordered a legally binding paternity test that very day to permanently silence all doubts. With the medical team arriving and nowhere left to run, the terrifying secret Seraphina had buried for five years was about to be dragged into the light.
8.0
Arletta Lee was dragged out of rural Pennsylvania to be a sacrificial bride for the comatose billionaire heir, Josue Mcconnell.
The moment she stepped into the massive estate, she became the prime target of a vicious, greedy family.
Josue's stepmother and half-brother viewed her as cheap trash. They didn't just want her gone; they wanted Josue dead.
Kyler broke into her room at night reeking of bourbon, and later sneaked into the medical wing with a lethal synthetic neurotoxin aimed right at Josue's IV line.
His jealous cousin even tried to permanently disfigure her face with a thermos of boiling water.
"She's just a cheap good-luck charm the old man bought. We can throw her out with the trash whenever we want."
They relentlessly bullied her, thinking she was just a helpless, terrified country girl who would quietly take the blame for their murder plot.
But what the arrogant Mcconnell family didn't know was that her pathetic, trembling demeanor was entirely manufactured.
They thought they had trapped a frightened rabbit in a den of wolves.
In reality, Arletta was a brilliant underground surgeon.
Using ancient neural acupuncture hidden in a simple wooden hairpin, she flawlessly turned their traps against them, locking Kyler away and winning the ruthless patriarch's absolute protection.
As the supposedly brain-dead billionaire finally twitched and locked his fingers in an iron grip around her hand, Arletta smiled coldly.
It was time to wake him up and let him tear this rotten family apart.
9.1
On our fourth wedding anniversary, I prepared a perfect home-cooked dinner for my husband, Carlisle.
But the moment he walked in, he threw a marital settlement agreement right onto the table.
"Sign it. Celine is back. There's no place for you here anymore."
His mother and sister immediately marched in to supervise my packing, calling me a barren gold-digger and trying to smash my late mother's only keepsake.
I signed the papers and walked out into the freezing night, thinking the nightmare was finally over.
But the next day, a heavily edited video of a childhood friend helping me into his car went viral online.
Carlisle's PR team released a public statement branding me a cheating wife, completely destroying my reputation.
He let the world tear me apart, using my ruined name to play the victim and justify bringing his first love home.
I had sacrificed my own dreams and endured his family's endless abuse for four years, only to be discarded like trash and framed for the exact emotional cheating he had been doing all along.
Watching the vile comments flood my screen, my heartbreak hardened into pure, unbreakable ice.
I calmly picked up my phone and dialed my father's number.
"Dad, it's time. I want to come home and take over Mcneil Industries."