Within weeks, the divorce was finalized. I left the country without telling anyone where I was going. France. Portugal. Then a quiet coastal town in Greece. I changed my number. Closed old accounts. Let the world forget me.
For the first time in years, I slept through the night.
Six months later, as I stood on a terrace overlooking the sea, reviewing plans for a small wedding, an email notification appeared on my phone.
Positive.
I stared at the word for a long time.
Pregnant.
Across the courtyard, Ethan Hayes — the trauma surgeon I had met during my travels — was laughing with our wedding planner about flower arrangements. Ethan was steady, thoughtful, the opposite of Charles. We were planning something simple. Private. Peaceful.
But numbers don’t lie.
I was twelve weeks along.
The child wasn’t Ethan’s.
It was Charles’s.
The irony was almost unbearable. While the Whitmores celebrated heirs carried by a mistress, they had unknowingly paid two billion dollars to remove their true bloodline from their lives.
And they had no idea.
That evening, I told Ethan everything. No theatrics. No excuses. Just facts.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“Do you want this baby?” he asked.
“Yes.”