Chapter 3

Charlotte Jennings POV:

"Get her things out of the master bedroom," Eleanor Sullivan commanded, not looking at me but at one of the household staff who had materialized in the foyer. Her voice was as sharp and cold as shattered glass. "Harper needs rest. The guest wing is too far from the main living area for a woman in her delicate condition."

Gabe said nothing. He just stood by the door, his face a grim, unreadable mask, as Harper offered me a small, tremulous smile of pure, venomous victory. My adoptive mother, Carol Jennings, rushed to Harper' s side, clucking over her like a hen.

"You poor dear, you must be exhausted. Let' s get you settled in."

My adoptive father, Robert, simply gave me a look of profound disappointment, as if my very presence was a stain on the family' s reputation.

I was being usurped in my own home, and my husband, the man who had vowed to protect me, was standing by and letting it happen. The staff, loyal to the man who signed their paychecks, began moving my clothes, my books, my life, out of the room I had shared with Gabe and into a small, sterile guest room at the back of the penthouse.

The master suite, with its panoramic views of the city and the bed where our child was conceived, was now hers.

"This is temporary, Charlotte," Gabe said later, after the jackals had settled their chosen one into her new den. He found me standing in the middle of the cramped guest room, surrounded by boxes of my belongings. "Just until the media attention dies down."

"Temporary?" I echoed, my voice hollow. "You' ve moved another woman into our bed, Gabe. There is nothing temporary about that."

"It' s for appearances!" he hissed, his patience wearing thin. "Harper needs to be seen here. My mother insisted. It solidifies the story."

"And what about our story? What about the truth?"

"The truth doesn' t matter right now! Only the narrative does!"

Over the next few days, my life became a waking nightmare. I was a ghost in my own home. Gabe was consumed with work, orchestrating the IPO launch, and when he was home, he was with Harper. I would hear them laughing in the living room, see them sharing meals on the terrace. Eleanor had taken over the household, directing the staff to cater to Harper' s every whim, from organic prenatal smoothies to specialized pillows.

My own pregnancy was ignored. A non-entity. When I experienced morning sickness, the cook told me Mrs. Sullivan had instructed her to prepare only the foods on Harper' s approved diet plan. When I tried to speak to Gabe, he was always in a meeting or on a call. He was avoiding me, hiding behind the wall of his ambition.

My adoptive parents were no better. They visited daily, not to see me, but to fawn over Harper and strategize with Eleanor about how best to present the "new family" to the press. They saw Harper' s baby as a golden ticket, a direct heir to the Sullivan empire, and they were hitching their wagon to it with sickening enthusiasm.

I was completely and utterly alone, a prisoner in a home that no longer felt like mine, carrying a child whose existence was an inconvenience to everyone.

One afternoon, I found Harper in my studio. My private space. She was running her hands over my architectural models, a faint, condescending smile on her lips.

"You' re very talented," she said, without turning around. "It' s a shame you' ll have to give it all up."

"I have no intention of giving anything up," I said, my voice tight.

She finally turned to face me, her expression one of faux sympathy. "Oh, darling. You still don' t get it, do you? You' re the past, Charlotte. I' m the future. Gabe feels a responsibility to you, of course. But his heart... his heart has always been with me."

"Get out of my studio," I said, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

"This isn't your studio anymore," she purred, trailing a finger along the edge of my drafting table. "Soon, this will be the nursery. Gabe and I were just discussing it. We think a celestial theme would be lovely, don' t you?"

Something inside me snapped. I lunged at her, my vision blurring with red-hot rage. I didn' t know what I intended to do, only that I couldn't stand her smug, triumphant face for another second.

But before I could reach her, a hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back. It was Gabe. He had come in silently, drawn by our raised voices.

He pulled me behind him, shielding Harper as if I were the threat. As if I were the monster.

"Charlotte, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes blazing with anger.

"She' s trying to hurt the baby!" Harper cried, clutching her stomach and stumbling backward dramatically. "Gabe, I' m scared!"

"I didn' t touch her!" I yelled, struggling against his grip. "She' s lying!"

But Gabe wasn't looking at me anymore. He was looking at Harper, his expression softening with concern. He rushed to her side, helping her to a chair, speaking to her in low, soothing tones.

He believed her. Without a moment' s hesitation, he believed her over me.

That was the moment I understood. This wasn't just about the IPO. This wasn't a temporary arrangement. This was a coup. And I had already lost.

Later that evening, Eleanor Sullivan came to my room. She didn' t knock. She entered with the air of a prison warden, my adoptive parents trailing behind her like obedient lapdogs.

"You have become a problem, Charlotte," Eleanor said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Your instability is a risk to the company. To my son. To my grandchild."

She slid a document onto the small desk. A contract.

"This is a post-nuptial agreement," she explained. "It outlines the terms of your future with Gabe. You will remain married until after the IPO. You will make no public statements. You will cede all parental rights of Harper' s child to Gabe. In exchange, you will be well compensated."

And then came the final, devastating blow.

"Furthermore," she continued, her eyes as cold as a winter sea, "Harper has informed us that you were unfaithful to my son. She said you confessed to her that your child may not even be Gabe' s. Given your violent outburst today, we cannot risk the scandal of a contested paternity. It is too messy."

My blood ran cold. "That' s a lie. That' s a disgusting lie."

"It doesn' t matter," Eleanor said flatly. "The perception is what matters. Therefore, you will terminate the pregnancy. Immediately."

The air left my body. I looked from Eleanor' s merciless face to my adoptive parents. They wouldn' t meet my eyes. They were complicit. They were selling me, and my child, for a piece of the Sullivan pie.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief. "No. I won' t."

Eleanor' s lips curved into a cruel smile. "I' m afraid you don' t have a choice. The appointment is tomorrow morning. You can either walk in there yourself, or my men will carry you."