His Pregnant Wife's Billionaire Retribution

barren to protect his mistress. I was visibly pregnant, but he erased me, our ch

longer a fragile wife but a harde

akes auction where Emer

spitting image, ma

the shadows and cal

dred fifty

pte

iela

Hamptons gala. Every eye in the ballroom turned to Emerson McGuire, my husband, as he shredded the flimsy paper wi

air in the room thicken

ng contempt, "has regretfully informed me of her... condition." He paused, letting the wor

ched. He was lying. Lying about m

ey believed him. Why wouldn't they? He was Emerson McGuire,

nwelcome, wash over me. It st

le silk, her face a mask of fragile concern. Her eyes, however, held a flicke

ping away a tear that hadn't quite fallen. "My dear Isolde," he murmured, his voice softening wi

r voice barely audible, "I just wish you could have everything you ever wanted." Her eyes

as standing there, visibly pregnant, holding my belly protectively, while

ized against me. The life growing inside me, a miracle I cherished, was being painted as a fabrication, a

which strings to pull, which buttons to push, to turn Emerson into her puppe

at my skin. I was not just infertile; I was a liar. An embarrass

a cold, hard assessment. "Gabriela," he said, his voice carrying just enough for those near

oser as if to shield her from the spectacle I had supposedly created. The mess

ng, went to my belly, a silent promise to the tiny life within. They thought they had broken me. They thought the

y eyes, only a nascent, terrifying resolve. Her smirk falter

nothing left for me there but ashes and lies. I reached the yacht, the expensive vessel that was supposed to be a symbol of our shared future, and stepped abo

ered, my hand stroking my swol