Too Late, CEO: Meet Your Hacker Son

Jenna James's fingers were turning white, clutching the flimsy piece of paper. The smooth, glossy surface of the ultrasound photo felt slick against her cold skin.

"Congratulations, Mrs. James. You're twelve weeks along."

Dr. Evans's kind voice echoed in the sterile silence of the Mount Sinai hallway, a stark contrast to the frantic hammering in her chest.

Pregnant.The word was a death sentence.

Her husband, Barrett Bolton, a ghost in a bespoke suit whose name she had taken in a loveless, strategic merger of families. For the last six months, that ghost had been lying in a coma in the VIP wing of this very hospital, a victim of a car crash that had made international headlines.

And now, she was carrying his child.

She had to tell him. It didn't matter if he was unresponsive, a body kept alive by machines. It was his right to know. This tiny, flickering life on the ultrasound photo was his, too.

Taking a breath that felt like swallowing shards of glass, Jenna stood up. Her legs were unsteady. She carefully folded the photo, the image of the tiny bean-shaped existence tucked away, and slid it into the pocket of her worn coat. It felt as heavy as a block of lead.

The walk to the VIP floor was like ascending to another world. The air grew quieter, the lighting softer, the smell of antiseptic replaced by the faint, clean scent of expensive floral arrangements. Two imposing men in dark suits guarded the entrance to the wing.

"Name?" one of them asked, his voice flat, his eyes sweeping over her inexpensive clothes with unconcealed disdain.

"Jenna James."

He checked a list on a tablet, his expression unchanging, and then stepped aside. The silent judgment in his gaze made her skin crawl.

She pushed open the heavy oak door to Barrett's suite. The sight that greeted her stole the air from her lungs.

He wasn't in the bed, surrounded by beeping machines.

He was sitting in a plush leather armchair by the window, dressed in a dark silk robe that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. The city lights of Manhattan glittered behind him, a backdrop to his formidable presence. He looked nothing like a man who had just woken from a six-month coma. He looked powerful. Dangerous.

And his eyes, a shade of arctic blue she had only seen in photos, were fixed on her. They were cold, utterly devoid of any warmth or recognition.

Her heart didn't just hammer now; it stalled. This was the first time she had seen him in person. The photographs hadn't done justice to the sheer, suffocating force of his aura.

"You're Jenna James?" His voice was low, a gravelly sound that held no emotion. It was the voice of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed.

Jenna could only manage a numb nod. Her hand instinctively went to her coat pocket, pressing against the folded ultrasound photo. A subconscious, protective gesture.

Barrett's icy gaze flickered down to her hand, then back to her face. He seemed to dismiss her in that single glance. With an air of profound boredom, he reached for a folder on the table beside him and tossed it onto the polished wood surface. It landed with a sharp slap that made her flinch.

The words on the cover were stark and black: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

The carefully constructed plan to tell him, to do the right thing, shattered into a million pieces. The words she had rehearsed died in her throat, choked by a sudden, paralyzing fear.

"Sign it," Barrett said, his voice flat. "Our marriage was a mistake. It's time to correct it."

Her lips trembled. She had to say something. She had to make him understand. "Barrett, I... there's something..."

"I have no interest in your affairs," he cut her off, his tone sharp as a razor. "Sign the papers. You'll receive a settlement generous enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life. Consider it a severance package."

Her hand, which had been reaching for her pocket, fell limply to her side. The ultrasound photo suddenly felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric.

She looked into his eyes, searching for a flicker of humanity, of anything other than this chilling indifference. There was nothing. This man wouldn't care about a child. He would see it as a liability, another complication in a transaction he was eager to close.

Worse, he might see it as a ploy. A cheap trick to get more money. He might even try to take the baby away from her.

A new, fierce, and desperate thought clawed its way through her panic: she had to protect this child. Alone.

Her hand shook as she reached for the pen lying next to the document. The ink was a stark, unforgiving black against the crisp white paper. She scrawled her name on the signature line. It looked like the handwriting of a stranger.

Barrett watched her, a flicker of satisfaction in his cold eyes. He retrieved the signed document as if concluding a business deal. He hadn't even stood up.

Jenna turned, her only instinct to flee, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room, to get away from him.

"I hope, for your sake, you haven't lied to me about anything," his voice followed her, laced with a quiet menace that was far more terrifying than shouting.

She froze at the door, her back to him. A cold sweat broke out across her skin, drenching the collar of her shirt.

"The price for deceiving me," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "is far worse than death."

She didn't dare look back. She wrenched the door open and practically ran out of the room, her footsteps echoing in the silent, opulent hallway.

The ultrasound photo in her pocket was a scorching brand against her hip. It was her only secret. Her only hope.