The Dying Wife's Secret Baby Bump
Arlene was bound to a hellish three-year contract marriage to save her family from total ruin.
Just as the contract was about to expire, she received a terminal brain cancer diagnosis and found out she was six weeks pregnant.
To protect the tiny life inside her, she refused all treatment, leaving her with only three months to live. When she tried to escape, her billionaire husband, Harrison, caught her. He dragged her back, brutally assaulted her, and forced her into the freezing cold to kneel at his father's grave. Even when she suffered a threatened miscarriage, bleeding and begging in agony, he showed no mercy. He simply left her alone in the dark and went straight to a hotel with his celebrity mistress.
For three years, she had endured his relentless revenge and his public declaration that he would rather his bloodline die than have a child with her. She was nothing but a prisoner in a gilded cage, waiting for a death sentence he didn't even know about.
But when Harrison shamelessly summoned her to act as the doting wife and clean up his cheating scandal, the old Arlene died. She didn't cry or beg. Instead, she blackmailed him and his mistress for millions in untraceable crypto.
"I'm saving up for my coffin fund."
Looking him dead in the eye, she calmly pocketed the extortion money, ready to play her final, ruthless game before her three-month clock ran out.
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Chapter 9
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse suite. It was a sprawling space of glass and steel, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. The furniture was white leather and chrome, cold and expensive.
Harrison was standing by the window, his phone pressed to his ear. He was wearing the same suit from yesterday, his tie loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked stressed. Good.
Kerry Morrow was sitting on the sofa, her sunglasses still on, her arms crossed over her chest. Her perfect hair was slightly frizzed, and her jaw was clenched tight. She looked terrified.
Harrison saw Arlene walk in. He ended the call without saying goodbye and dropped the phone on the bar.
"Finally," he snapped. "You know what to do. Go downstairs, tell them you're here to discuss the charity gala with me. Smile for the cameras. Make it convincing."
Arlene didn't move. She stood in the center of the room, her bag clutched in her hand, her expression unreadable.
She turned her head slowly, her gaze landing on Kerry. "Miss Morrow," she said, her voice cool and polite. "I think we need to have a little chat before I do anything. Just the two of us."
Kerry pulled down her sunglasses, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
Harrison stepped forward, his eyes flashing. "Arlene, this isn't a social call. Do your job."
"I am," Arlene replied, not looking at him. She kept her eyes locked on Kerry. "My job is damage control. And right now, the damage isn't just to the Boyle name. It's to Miss Morrow's career. Isn't that right, Kerry?"
Kerry flinched. The actress's mask slipped for a second, revealing the raw panic underneath. The upcoming movie deals, the brand endorsements-they were all on the line. A scandal like this could tank her career overnight.
"Get out, Harrison," Arlene said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Harrison stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief. "What did you just say?"
"I need to speak with your... friend. Alone. Unless you want the whole world to know the details of your arrangement."
Harrison's jaw clenched. He looked from Arlene to Kerry, then back again. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse. Then, with a look of pure, undiluted fury, he turned on his heel and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
The sound echoed in the silent suite. Kerry jumped.
Arlene walked over to the bar and poured herself a glass of water. She took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. Let the actress sweat.
"Look, Mrs. Boyle-" Kerry started, her voice trembling.
"Call me Arlene," she interrupted, setting the glass down. "And let's cut the crap. You're in trouble. I'm not. I can walk out of here right now, and the story writes itself. 'Scorned Wife Abandoned.' The tabloids will eat it up. But you? You'll be the homewrecker. Your brand deals will vanish. Your movie offers will dry up."
Kerry's face paled. "I didn't-this wasn't supposed to-"
"I don't care what it was supposed to be," Arlene said, her voice hard. "I care about what it is. And right now, it's a problem. A problem I can fix."
Kerry stared at her, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "How?"
"I can make this go away," Arlene said. "I can go downstairs, smile for the cameras, and spin a story about a charity partnership that makes you look like a saint instead of a sinner. But that kind of service doesn't come cheap."
Kerry's eyes narrowed, the fear replaced by suspicion. "You want money? You're his wife. You already have everything."
"I want hush money," Arlene said bluntly. "A confidentiality fee. For everything I've seen today. And a PR fee. For my services."
She pulled out her phone and showed Kerry the number. It was a lot. It was more than Kerry made on a single movie, but less than she would lose if the scandal broke her.
Kerry's mouth fell open. "You're insane."
"Probably," Arlene agreed. "But I'm also your only way out of this. You have sixty seconds to decide."
Kerry looked at the door, then back at Arlene. She thought about the headlines, the lost contracts, the ruined reputation. She thought about the money.
"Fine," she spat. "But I'm paying in crypto. Untraceable."
"Done," Arlene said, holding out her phone. "Send it now."
Kerry fumbled with her own phone, her fingers shaking. A minute later, Arlene's screen lit up with a notification. Transfer complete.
Arlene smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Pleasure doing business with you."
She turned and walked to the bedroom door. She knocked once, then opened it.
Harrison was standing by the bed, his arms crossed, his face like thunder. "What the hell was that?"
"That," Arlene said, walking past him back into the living room, "was business."
She turned to face him, her eyes bright, her posture relaxed. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying the way he was looking at her, like she had just grown a second head.
"Now," she said, "it's your turn."
"My turn?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low.
"You hired me to fix your mess," she said. "I've secured the talent. Now I need to secure the boss. And my rates are non-negotiable."
She named her price. It was double what she had charged Kerry. And she wanted it in a different form.
"I want it transferred to an anonymous, offshore crypto wallet," she said, her voice firm. "The kind that disappears without a trace."
Harrison stared at her for a long moment. Then, he laughed. It was a harsh, incredulous sound. "You're shaking me down? In my own hotel?"
"I'm charging you for my services," Arlene corrected. "You want the Boyle name clean? You want the stock price to recover? You pay. I'm not your free employee, Harrison. I'm your wife. And right now, your wife is very, very expensive."
He pushed himself off the doorframe and walked toward her. He stopped inches away, looking down at her. He was trying to intimidate her, to reassert his dominance. But Arlene didn't flinch. She looked right back at him, her eyes unyielding.
He searched her face for some sign of weakness, some crack in the armor. He found none. This wasn't the Arlene he knew. This was someone else. Someone cold. Someone calculating.
The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a look of dark, twisted interest.
"Fine," he said, the word clipped.
He walked over to the writing desk in the corner. He pulled out a tablet and tapped the screen a few times, his movements sharp and angry. A moment later, Arlene's phone chimed. A secure message containing a long string of characters. The transaction ID.
He tossed the tablet onto the desk. It clattered against the wood.
"Done," he clipped out.
Arlene checked the transaction on a block explorer app. The amount was correct. The transfer was irreversible. She tucked her phone back into her bag, next to the small fortune she had just acquired.
"Thank you for your patronage," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "Now, let's get to work."
She turned to Kerry, who was watching the exchange with her mouth hanging open.
"Take off the jewelry," Arlene commanded. "The sunglasses too. You look like you're hiding something. We're going for 'concerned friend,' not 'guilty mistress.'"
Kerry scrambled to comply, pulling off her earrings and handing them to a hovering assistant.
Arlene looked at Harrison. "Tell your PR team to draft a release about a new arts education initiative. The Boyle Foundation is partnering with Miss Morrow to bring art supplies to underprivileged kids. It's wholesome, it's photogenic, and it gives you a reason to be in the same room."
Harrison didn't argue. He just picked up his phone and started barking orders.
Arlene felt a rush of power. It was intoxicating. For the first time in three years, she was in control. She was calling the shots. And she was getting paid to do it.
She had bought herself some time. Some security. Some coffin fund.
The thought made her smile. A real smile this time. One that reached her eyes.
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8.7
I make my living binding monsters to their promises. But Silas Malphas is the one monster I never should have touched.
As a Thread-Binder, I can see the glowing, invisible strings of loyalty, debt, and lies connecting everyone in the city's supernatural underworld. It makes me the ultimate contract lawyer-and the perfect infiltrator.
My mission is simple: secure a job in the inner circle of the House of Malphas, the city's most ruthless monster syndicate, and steal the Primal Ledger from their lethal heir.
Silas Malphas commands the shadows themselves. He is arrogant, dominant, and terrifyingly elegant. But the most dangerous thing about him isn't his power-it's that when I look at him, I see *nothing*. He is a void in the magical spectrum. No debts. No loyalties. He is completely unreadable.
I was supposed to betray him. But as I am dragged deeper into his golden cage of high-stakes negotiations and blood-soaked boardroom politics, the lines between my mission and my dark attraction to the Beast begin to blur.
When a rival faction launches a deadly coup and my cover is blown, I am left with a terrifying choice. To survive the night, I must forge a blood-oath contract with the very monster I was sent to destroy.
I'm no longer just his lawyer. I'm bound to the Beast.
7.4
My mother was dying and desperately needed a half-million-dollar deposit for an experimental heart surgery by tomorrow.
I swallowed my pride and begged my wealthy husband, Garrick, to save her life.
Instead of helping, he laughed coldly and threw a thick stack of divorce papers right in my face.
"A hen that can't lay eggs gets slaughtered," he sneered, ruthlessly poking my flat stomach.
He revealed that his secretary, my supposed friend Lacey, was already pregnant with his heir.
To him, our three years of marriage was just a business transaction, and now that my family was bankrupt, I was nothing but damaged goods.
He flicked a humiliating five-thousand-dollar check at me as his final act of charity, then locked me out of our townhouse into the freezing, pouring rain.
I had spent years enduring agonizing hormone treatments for a fertility issue that wasn't even my fault, only to be discarded like trash when I needed him the most.
Was my dignity, my absolute devotion, and my mother's life really worth nothing to him?
Driven by pure, reckless desperation, I threw myself directly into the path of a moving Rolls-Royce Phantom on Fifth Avenue.
It belonged to Holden Tillman, the ruthless patriarch of the Tillman empire—and the uncle Garrick lived in absolute terror of.
I thought I was walking into my death, but instead, I became his fiancée, ready to make Garrick and Lacey pay for every tear I shed.
8.2
Justine abandoned her career as a top trauma surgeon to marry Congressman Carl McConnell. She did it to fulfill her dying sister's last wish: to protect her son, Leo, from this ruthless political family.
But the seven-year-old boy she swore to protect shoved her into a freezing koi pond, then cried to his father that Justine tried to drown him.
Carl didn't even check the security cameras. He hugged his precious heir and looked at his freezing wife with pure disgust.
"Are you out of your mind? Trying to hurt the heir to the McConnell family!"
He locked Justine in a 55-degree wine cellar while she was burning with a 102-degree fever. When she finally told him the truth, Carl flew into a rage and hurled a heavy brass-cornered book at her face, slicing her cheekbone wide open.
His mother even ordered the staff to starve her for seven days to reflect on her sins.
Justine stood in the dark, blood dripping down her face, her heart completely dead. She had sacrificed her brilliant future and her pride for this family, only to be tortured and discarded like garbage. How could they be so utterly devoid of humanity?
She pulled out her old medical kit and stitched up her own face.
Then, she signed the legal documents to permanently relinquish her stepparent rights, threw them at the housekeeper, and calmly looked at her abusive husband.
"I am divorcing you, Carl."
9.6
To escape my sister-in-law selling me off to a local thug, I married a complete stranger I met at City Hall.
My new husband, Drake, claimed to be a broke Uber driver who could barely make rent.
He even made me sign a brutal ten-page prenup just to ensure I wouldn't take his rusted, beat-up Ford sedan if we ever divorced.
I thought I was just sharing a decaying Brooklyn apartment with a struggling man at the bottom of the ladder.
But things quickly stopped making sense.
When that local thug cornered me at a restaurant, my "weak" husband didn't cower.
Instead, he dismantled three massive mobsters in ten seconds with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.
"I used to be a human punching bag in an underground boxing gym to pay off debts."
I believed his excuse, until his supposedly homeless grandfather showed up at our door in a moth-eaten sweater, begging to sleep on our lumpy sofa.
Before going to sleep, the old man casually pressed a heavy, intricately engraved pocket watch into my hand as a wedding gift.
He claimed it was a cheap flea market find that didn't even keep time.
But the sheer weight of the solid rose gold and the flawless mechanical gears inside screamed otherwise.
Why did a destitute driver have the aura of a man who controlled empires?
And what kind of homeless old man casually hands over a priceless, museum-grade antique?
I had no idea the "broke driver" sleeping on my floor was actually a ruthless billionaire CEO, and I had just walked straight into his trap.
8.9
I sold three years of my life to a billionaire to save my mother. I was his pretend fiancée, a stand-in for his ex, counting down the days until the contract ended and we could finally be free.
But just as we were about to escape, his real girlfriend returned and publicly accused me of faking a pregnancy to trap him.
My fiancé, Drake, didn't hesitate. He called me a disgusting gold-digger and threatened to pull my mother's medical funding to force me into an abortion.
The shock of his cruelty sent my mother into cardiac arrest. She died right there in the hospital.
They demanded I abort a child that could never exist, a lie built to destroy me.
But they didn't know my secret. After my mother' s death, I finally told him the truth that shattered his world: I was born without a uterus. And with her last letter in my hand, I walked away from him forever.
7.5
Five years ago, Alisson Ford's adoptive family drugged her and offered her to a repulsive old investor to save their failing company.
She escaped the trap, only to accidentally stumble into the bed of Jake Yates, the most terrifying and powerful billionaire in the city.
Months later, while she was painfully giving birth to triplets in a freezing basement, her adoptive sister Bella tracked her down. Bella violently snatched Alisson's firstborn son to pass off as her own ticket into the Yates family. Then, Bella smiled as her men poured gasoline over the mattress and set the room on fire, leaving Alisson and her two remaining newborns to burn alive.
Shielding her fragile babies with her own blistering skin in the roaring inferno, Alisson's despair turned into absolute, blood-soaked hatred. She couldn't fathom how the family she had trusted for years could steal her flesh and blood and condemn her to such a horrific death.
Five years later, Alisson returns to the city as a powerful trauma specialist. She steps right into Jake and Bella's grand engagement banquet, watching coldly as her five-year-old daughter runs straight up to the untouchable billionaire and hugs his leg.
"You are a bad daddy! You abandoned Mommy and us, and now you are going to marry an ugly old witch!"