Mr Billionaire's Plaything

Arabella's POV

I press my thighs together as the warmth leaves me, trickling into the toilet. My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to break out of my chest. I sit still, breathing unevenly, gripping the edge of the bathroom counter as if the marble will anchor me through this storm.

I don't want to know.

And yet, I do.

The test sits next to me on the sink, cap still off. I haven't dipped it yet. It's there, like a loaded gun. One I built with my own curiosity.

What if he doesn't want a child?

What if this pushes him further away?

What if, God forbid this ruins the one good thing we've started to build in three damn years?

No. Not "we." Me. I built it. Brick by hopeful brick. He just lived in it.

I close my eyes and pray for strength. Not for a positive or a negative. Just strength. To face whatever happens in the next five minutes.

Slowly, I dip the strip into the urine sample. One... two... ten.

I cap it and lay it flat on the counter with trembling fingers.

My phone's timer starts its five-minute countdown. Each second ticks louder than the last. My leg bounces uncontrollably, fingers twitching, lips trembling.

I don't know if I want to cry, scream, or laugh.

God, let it be good news. Whatever that means.

My reflection in the mirror is a ghost. Pale. Eyes wide. A version of me I don't recognize. Not the strong Arabella who walked into this marriage with her chin high and her heart bruised but brave. This woman looks... breakable.

And for the first time in forever, I feel it.

Breakable.

I blink, once. Twice. I try to smile, but my lips betray me. They tremble instead.

I try to stand tall, but my knees buckle.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Five minutes can stretch like five years when your whole life hangs on two pink lines.

And then, ding.

The timer screams.

My eyes refuse to obey, still glued to the mirror, where doubt and fear have made a permanent home. I don't look down. Not yet.

Instead, I breathe. A slow, shaking inhale. A stuttered exhale.

Then I drop my gaze.

Two pink lines.

Two bold, undeniable lines.

Pregnant.

I cover my mouth with both hands as a rush of disbelief, relief, and joy floods me all at once. A hysterical laugh escapes, tears chasing it down my cheeks. My knees give out, and I sit on the cold tiled floor, back against the wall.

I'm pregnant.

I'm going to have a baby.

I whisper it aloud like it'll feel more real: "I'm pregnant."

I run my hand gently over my stomach, already imagining the life growing inside. Mine. Ours.

But then... his face flashes in my mind.

Richard.

Will he be happy?

Or will this be the final push that sends him running into someone else's arms?

That question slices my joy in half.

We've been married for three years. But let's not pretend, it wasn't love. Not on his end. It was an arrangement. A contract signed with suits and lawyers and desperation on both sides. I gave my heart for free. He handed me his signature.

But lately... things have changed. He smiles more. Sleeps beside me more often than not. Kisses my forehead when he thinks I'm asleep. Even laughs sometimes.

Or maybe I imagined all that.

Maybe I just wanted to believe that the man I fell for would one day fall back.

I rise to my feet, wipe my tears, toss the test into the bin, and march out of the bathroom.

I don't plan what I'll say. I just need to see his eyes when I tell him. I need to believe he'll see me. Really see me. Not just the woman he married, but the woman carrying his child.

The hallway to his home office feels longer than usual. My heartbeat echoes through it like a war drum. I clutch the wall at the last step, grounding myself.

Then I hear it.

His voice.

Muffled but unmistakable, deep and smooth like melted dark chocolate.

"I love you, Eve."

My world freezes.

His laugh follows, careless and warm. The kind he's never given me. The kind I've only ever dreamed about.

Eve.

My fingers go numb on the doorknob.

Who the hell is Eve?

I crack the door open just enough to see him behind his desk, phone to his ear, his smile wide, eyes crinkled.

"I can't stop thinking about that night," he says. "I wish I were with you now."

My breath dies in my throat.

He spins toward the door just as I swing it open, and our eyes lock.

For a split second, I see it, the guilt. The panic. But it's gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it.

He ends the call, pocketing his phone with irritating ease.

"Arabella," he says, as if nothing happened. "I was just about to come see you."

I don't speak.

I want to scream. To throw the nearest object at his perfect, lying face. But the words choke in my throat, blocked by the lump of betrayal.

"Did you get the papers?" he asks, flipping files into his briefcase, not even glancing at me.

I blink. "What papers?"

"The divorce papers."

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He finally looks up.

"My girlfriend, Eve Rogers, is back," he says simply. "We had an agreement, remember? When she came back, we'd end this. I'm going to marry her."

The words hit harder than any slap. They slice through me, cruel and clean. I stagger back, one hand gripping my stomach.

"Eve Rogers," I whisper.

How could I forget the name of the woman he loved before me? The woman he mourned through our wedding vows. The ghost who haunted our bedroom walls.

I thought she was gone. Out of the picture.

But she's back.

And I'm out.

He sees the devastation in my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I swear he falters. But then his gaze hardens again.

"I'm sorry, Arabella. I know this is hard."

I laugh. A cold, bitter sound. "Hard? You're divorcing me like we're canceling a lunch date. I just.." My voice breaks. "I just found out I'm pregnant, Richard."

His eyes widen. For once, he's speechless.

"I was coming to tell you. I thought you'd be happy. I thought we were finally getting somewhere," I whisper, stepping closer. "But you were too busy telling Eve how much you love her."

He says nothing.

"Say something," I beg.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. "I didn't expect this."

"Clearly."

He looks at me, and this time there's no ice in his expression. Just raw, exposed confusion. And fear.

"I can't have a child with someone I don't love," he finally says.

The floor tilts beneath me.

I cover my mouth again, not in joy this time, but to hold back the sob threatening to rip me in half.

I want to beg. To scream. To hit him. But all I do is nod.

"I see," I manage.

I turn around. I can't stay in this room. I can't stay in this house.

My legs carry me down the stairs, through the door, into the cold. I don't even grab my coat.

The wind slaps my face like the truth I refused to see for three years.

I thought this baby would save us.

I was wrong.

It's the beginning of the end.

Or maybe... just maybe, it's the start of something else.

Because as I walk away from Richard's mansion, and from the wreckage of a marriage built on lies, I don't feel weak anymore.

I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.

Fury.

And fire.

Let Eve have him.

He just lost the best thing he never valued.

And this baby?

He or she will never beg to be loved.

Not by someone like Richard Blackwood.