Apologies, Mr Playboy. I'm Pregnant.

It was 1 a.m., and the world was fast asleep-but not Joyce Albert. She was waiting outside La Reserve Hotel for a certain playboy to be done having a good time.

"Camille, I'm doing this for you," she mumbled to herself, tapping her fingers on her shoulders. Her friend's only shot at escaping death row depended on her getting pregnant-and Joyce knew it.

She might not have shown it when her friend requested the impossible from her, but she knew what Camille had asked wasn't morally right.

But-

Camille had been there for her, many more times than she could count. It was Camille who saved her from her abusive father and made sure he never laid a finger on her again. It was Camille who implored Mr David Owens to send her to school. And still Camille who protected her from bullies.

To her, her childhood, teenage years, and even her youth were memorable because of Camille. And so, she had to do anything to save her friend from the grasp of death-even if it meant going against her morals.

"The money?" a voice asked from behind her. Joyce turned around, breathing a sigh of relief. She thought the lady might have gone back on her word.

"I have to see it first," Joyce said, trying her best to appear composed. "Is it in good condition?"

The lady, barely clad in anything, nodded. "Yeah, I did exactly as you instructed. Stored it just as you wanted-still warm and fresh."

"And were you caught?"

"Nope. Everyone was high and having a good time. None of them noticed I was saving some of his sperm for later. Now give me my money so I can get the fuck out of here?" the stripper hissed, pushing the small plastic container into Joyce's hand.

Joyce pulled out a brown envelope filled with cash and handed it to the lady.

"If you need more sperm, call me," the stripper winked, walking away.

Joyce brought out a small flask from inside her bag-Camille had instructed her to get one that matched human body temperature. That way, the sperm would stay viable for at least an hour.

After tightly shutting the flask, Joyce rushed out of the hotel. A taxi was already waiting, so she got in, and the driver sped off. She had already used up seven minutes with the stripper. It would take five more to reach the prison.

Joyce held the flask in her hand and murmured, "I can make it."

The driver didn't stop at the front gate of the prison; instead, he pulled up at the back door, where an officer was waiting for her.

She handed the flask to the officer, with a brown envelope tucked underneath it.

The officer coughed, glancing around as he slipped the envelope into his pocket. "I'm to believe whatever's in here is a little snack, right?"

"I'm paying you to believe so," Joyce replied, staring him down. "You have to get it to her now."

"Of course..."

The officer walked into the prison, then handed the flask to the female warden.

"Give this to the new inmate-Inmate 275. And do it now."

The female warden stared at the flask suspiciously, then back at the officer. "What's inside?" she asked.

The officer brought out the brown envelope, split the money in half, and handed her a share.

"That's a lot of money. Should I be worried about what's in the flask?" the warden asked, eyeing the cash.

"Do you want it or not? Last time I checked, you never cared even if it was a bomb being smuggled in." The officer raised an eyebrow, ready to take the money back.

If she wouldn't do the job, there were plenty of others who would-for less. After all, the government didn't pay them enough to be upright officers.

The warden exhaled, weighing the money in her palm. "Fine. I'll deliver it."

Truthfully, she didn't want to know what was in the flask. If she did, it would mean she was indirectly involved.

She walked briskly past the countless cells, holding the flask as if it belonged to her, nodding to guards as they greeted her.

"Inmate 275," she called, using her baton to strike the iron bars of Camille's cell.

Camille stood up from her bed and walked to the gate. The warden handed her the flask, then turned and left.

Camille opened the flask and walked back to her bed. Inside was a small plastic container-containing the sperm of Pierce Landon, son of General Landon.

There was also a note from her friend:

'I did exactly as you instructed. The sperm should be alright. Now, do what you have to do-and make sure the real murderer of your father won't have a place to hide in this world.'

Camille read the note with a smile on her lips.

'Camille Owens, you have been found guilty of the crime of murder under Section 365 of the Sovereign Republic of Ventria 210.2. According to Section 365 of our law, a person who commits murder is punishable by death. The evidence presented before this court has left no doubt as to your guilt. Therefore, it is the duty of this court to impose the sentence prescribed by law. Camille Owens, you are hereby sentenced to death for the murder of David Owens.'

She was found guilty of killing her father-there was a glass lodged in her father's throat and it had her fingerprint. But Camille wasn't about to take the punishment for a crime she didn't commit.

She held the small plastic container in her hand and murmured, "I hope this works. It has to."

⸻

Two Months Later

Camille followed the warden as she was led to the execution grounds. She had no fear in her-because her plan had worked.

She'd noticed the signs: fatigue, nausea, the absence of her period. And today, it would be confirmed. For the first time in her life, she was glad she didn't study business as her father had wanted-but medicine instead. Her knowledge was what was saving her now.

You'd expect an execution ground to look more ominous, Camille thought, walking into the nicely decorated room. It looked nothing like her cell. It resembled a five-star hotel-minus the luxury bed.

"I want the last thing a prisoner on death row sees to be a beautiful world," explained the man seated in a large black armchair, who appeared to be in charge of her execution.

"You can call me Mr Steven," he added.

Camille couldn't explain why, but the smile on his face irked her-just like the dark suit he was wearing.

"Sit over there," the warden said to Camille, pointing to a small dining table made for one.

Camille sat down, wondering if she should play her hidden card now or wait.

Before her was what looked like an open kitchen. With curiosity, she watched a man dressed in white chef's clothing step out. He stood before her and bowed lightly.

"Good evening, Ms Camille Owens. My name is Zach, and I'll be your private chef tonight."

"You can order anything you want, and I'll prepare it right away," Chef Zach said, smiling brightly.

At the mention of food, her stomach rumbled. But Camille was no fool, she was told she would be poisoned. So wasn't it convenient that her executioner offered her food?

"I was told I'd be poisoned, and I just wondered if my food would have poison it," Camille replied.

"Does it matter?" Mr Steven asked.

"Yes, it does-because I don't plan on dying tonight," Camille said calmly, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I'm pregnant,"

Mr Steven laughed. "Couldn't you come up with a more believable lie? You can't be pregnant. You were examined when you were brought here."

"Then check again," Camille shrugged.

Mr Steven turned to the chef. "Feed her the poison directly if she won't eat."

"I guess you won't mind explaining to the General why you murdered his grandchild."

Mr Steven's face darkened. "Give her the poison now," he snapped.

The chef grabbed the bottle that held the poison and walked toward Camille.

Her heartbeat accelerated. She stared at Mr Steven, fear clawing up her throat- but she showed none of it.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice steady. "But everyone knows how desperate the General is for an heir. When he comes for your head, don't say I didn't warn you."

Mr Steven could tell she wasn't lying. Her voice and her eyes told him she was serious.

With a groan, he barked, "Fetch the doctor. Now."

The warden left. Minutes later, she returned with the doctor, who immediately got to work. A needle pricked Camille's arm, drawing blood swiftly.

"Make sure the results are accurate. If you get it wrong, your head and mine will be on the line."

The doctor nodded and left.

Mr Steven turned to the warden. "Take her to her cell. In three hours, we'll know if she's telling the truth-or just a really good liar."

The warden led Camille back through the prison and locked her in again.

Camille heard nothing nothing the entire day. She was restless. Had she misread the signs? Was she really not pregnant? The thoughts clawed at her.

But just as she was about to lose hope, she heard:

"Inmate 275."

Camille stood and walked to the gate. The warden unlocked her cell.

"Follow me."

She was led through long corridors, metal doors, and finally, to a secret exit at the edge of the prison.

Outside, a black limousine waited.

"I don't know how you did it, but your test came back positive," Mr Steven said, standing beside the car. "But I should let you know-the General isn't as nice as you think. If that child isn't his grandson, you'll wish you had died in that room."

Camille said nothing and got into the car.

As the engine roared to life and they drove out of the prison, Camille had no time to enjoy the view of Ventria.

She was about to play a game-one where her chances were fifty-fifty.

Her hand settled over her stomach.

"Is this really the only way?" she whispered.

But she knew-there was no other choice. Her plan was already in motion.

She sighed, staring at her reflection in the tinted window. The woman she had become stared back.

"Well... time to meet my baby's father-and grandfather."

Camille's limousine ride came to an end as the vehicle pulled up to the General's grand estate. The imposing structure loomed before her, its intricately designed black gate a testament to the General's wealth and power. As if she had just stepped into a horror film, the fearsome gate swung open – welcoming her to hell.

The limousine drove through the iron gates, its tyres crunching over the gravel drive. Camille pressed her palms to her thighs, willing herself to remain composed and not break down before the General.

The limousine slowed to a stop, and a man in uniform opened her door. She stepped out, her eyes taking in the beauty of the General's grand estate. Camille didn't get a chance to complete her tour, as a soldier said to her, "Come with me."

Camille inhaled sharply and followed him into the main residence. Then she was escorted to the General's study.

The soldier knocked on the study door. "Your guest has arrived, sir," he announced.

"Bring her in," General Landon bellowed from inside his study, his voice gruff.

That is not a good sign, Camille thought, praying earnestly in her heart that the meeting she was about to have with the General would go well and in her favour.

The soldier opened the door, and Camille walked in. Only when she was halfway in did she realise that her escort did not follow her in.

Camille steadied her breathing as she stood before the General, who was seated behind a massive oak desk. His piercing gaze took in every detail of her body language.

"Ah, Camille Owens," the General let out, his gaze softening, but his voice firm and controlled. "I've heard a lot about you. Specifically, that you're carrying my grandchild."

Camille gripped the side of her dress. "That's correct, sir."

"Okay," General Landon said, nodding as he returned to his seat. "A DNA test will be conducted, and we'll have our discussion afterwards."

Camille hadn't expected the General to react the way he did. Yes, she knew he was desperately looking for a grandchild, but she didn't expect him to be so relaxed about a criminal charged with the death sentence, now claiming she was pregnant with his son's child.

"That's fine by me," Camille responded, her grip on her gown loosening.

The General's gaze lingered on her for a moment – before he pressed a button on his intercom. "Ms Elizabeth, please report to my study."

Minutes later, a middle-aged woman with a kind yet firm demeanour entered the room. "Yes, sir?"

"Ms Elizabeth, this is Camille Owens. She'll be staying with us for a while. Please show her to her room and ensure she has everything she needs."

Ms Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with warmth as she smiled at Camille. "Follow me, dear."

But as Camille rose to her feet, General Landon's voice cut through the air, "If the DNA test proves that the child isn't my son's, I'll make you wish for death, because it would be a better option."

Camille gulped, her fingers tightening on her dress once more. She knew that the child was indeed Pierce's child, but still... what if? Camille fingers shivered at her sides, her mind pushing the thoughts away.

"Come with me," Ms Elizabeth said, and Camille gave her a tight smile, then followed her out of the General's study. His threats still freshed in her head.

As they walked through the estate, Camille noticed the beautiful decor and impeccable cleanliness. But, her mood shifted when Ms Elizabeth walked her through a long hallway with pictures of General Landon and the generals before him. She felt uneasy – their heated gaze seemed to be judging and shaming her for the choices she had made. She swallowed.

Ms Elizabeth led her to a cosy room with a plush bed and a large window overlooking the gardens. It was larger than her prison cell, and sincerely, she was just grateful to be out of there.

"Get some rest, dear," Ms Elizabeth said. "We'll go shopping for clothes tomorrow morning. Please wake up early."

Camille's eyes lit up at the prospect of new clothes. "Thank you, Ms Elizabeth."

Ms Elizabeth smiled, her heart constricting with pity for the young lady. She didn't know the full story, but she knew the girl had lost her father and was accused of killing him. Ms Elizabeth could tell a good person when she saw one, and she knew the moment she laid eyes on Camille that she wasn't capable of committing such an atrocity.

Ms Elizabeth left the room, and Camille immediately fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

***

The next morning, Camille woke up early, just as Ms Elizabeth instructed. She'd grown to like the lady and didn't want to disappoint her.

Ms Elizabeth arrived to collect Camille and led her through the intimidating hallway, down a flight of stairs, and into the secondary living room.

Camille gasped. Rows of designer dresses stood before her. If she didn't know better, she might have thought she'd entered a boutique. "I thought we were going shopping?" she whispered to Ms Elizabeth.

Ms Elizabeth chuckled. "I never said it would be outside the estate."

Ms Elizabeth clapped her hands. A fair-skinned woman, with blue dyed hair, draped in designer wear from head to toe – waltzed in, her high-pitched voice somehow offered Camille solace that she was indeed back in the real world.

"Wow, you must be Camille?" the lady asked. "My name is Gloria, and I will be your stylist for the day."

"So, when you said shopping, you meant... that the shop would come to me?" Camille asked, sitting down on the beautiful cream-coloured sofa in the living room. Ms Elizabeth offered her fresh juice. "Precisely."

"Yes," Mrs Gloria clapped her hands, bustling with excitement. The last time she was invited to the General's estate was before the General's wife passed away. She was so thrilled to be called in yesterday evening by Ms Elizabeth.

"Alright, Ms Camille, would you like to discuss your style, or shall I pick out clothes for you, based solely on my judgement? Or, of course, there's option three: a combination of your style and my fashion sense."

Camille wasn't exactly a fashion expert. She refused to dress like a heiress should, just to spite her father – but somehow she became addicted to the boyish style she'd created for herself.

Now that she has stepped into the world of the top 1% of Ventria, she needed to look the part. "Option two."

"Excellent choice!" Mrs Gloria clapped her hands excitedly, then moved with robotic efficiency, throwing out dresses onto an empty couch, muttering words like a crazy person. "Beautiful, nope – too revealing, exquisite, perfect, no, no, no – ugh, I hate it. Yes! Gorgeous."

Each dress received barely five seconds' consideration before being tossed onto the 'bad' pile or the 'good' pile.

"I'm done," Mrs Gloria announced, standing proudly as she beamed at the clothes she had put together for Camille.

"Take these clothes to Ms Camille's room and arrange them perfectly," Ms Elizabeth instructed. The maids, who had been standing aside, immediately went to work.

Camille stared at the maids as they packed up the pile of clothes. She thought she would only get at least five outfits, but if it was this many, does it mean the General already believed she is carrying his grandson?

"May I return to my room, or is there something else you'd like me to do, Ms Elizabeth?" Camille asked politely, standing to her feet.

"Nothing else, my dear. You may go," Ms Elizabeth responded, smiling warmly at her. "I'll let you know when breakfast is ready."

Camille thanked her, then left the living room, heading back to her room. The maids were still arranging her clothes in the wardrobe, so she sat down on the bed, waiting for them to be done so she could sleep some more.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Camille jumped up in fright. And a man in his twenties stormed in, his emerald eyes blazing with anger.

"Out! All of you, out!" he barked, and the maids scurried away in fear.

Camille didn't need anyone to tell her who the man was. From the anger in his eyes she could tell.

"Pierce Landon," Camille called, her amber-golden eyes watching his every move. If she didn't have a lot on her plate, she might have admired the man before her.

"How dare you?" He yelled, advancing toward her, his eyes burning with rage.

Camille remained standing, refusing to move backwards or run away. She had prepared herself for this moment, and she was ready.

"What do you want?" she asked calmly, sitting on the bed.

Pierce scoffed in disbelief. "What do I want? You're pregnant with my child – one that I'm a hundred percent sure isn't mine – and you dare ask me what I want?"

Camille gazed into his beautiful emerald eyes; the fire dancing in his eyes was intoxicating, not intimidating, as he intended. She exhaled sharply, blaming her body's reaction to his thin jawline, pointed nose, and beautifully sculpted body on the hormones.

She coughed slightly. "You barged into my room, so I have every right to question you."

Pierce took a step back, shocked by Camille's attitude. No one had ever dared question Pierce Landon, and yet, he found it boldly attractive. He stared at her, her amber eyes gleamed like gold, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders, framing her delicate features.

But he wasn't here to admire her. If what she said was true, then this woman was an enemy, and definitely not a pleasant one. He stared at her piercingly, lowering his face to hers, dangerously close. She could feel his angry breath on her nose; their lips were almost touching.

Her stomach twisted. He was close, too close. The way he looked at her- it wasn't just anger. It was madness.

Then, he grabbed her by the neck, his fingers digging into her flesh. Camille gasped, her hands reached for his, as she tried to pull his hand away, but the more she tried, the more his fingers tightened.

He lowered his lips to her ear; his lips brushing roughly against her cheek. "I might have lived a promiscuous lifestyle, but I would never be so careless as to get anyone pregnant."

He pulled back to stare directly into her eyes. "This pregnancy had better be a lie, Ms Camille, or I will rip that thing out of your stomach."

He released her, and she fell onto the bed, choking. A tear rolled down her cheek as she gasped for air.

"What the fuck, man! That's your sixth!" Alex Daniels yelled, snatching the bottle from Pierce.

Alex wasn't just anyone-he was one of Pierce Landon's oldest friends. A level-headed lawyer with a sarcastic streak, he was known for being the voice of reason among their small circle. Tonight, though, even he seemed unsure how to deal with the mess in front of him.

They had all come out to unwind, but for the first time, Pierce paid no attention to the strippers around him. Instead, he drowned himself in alcohol, spiraling deeper into whatever storm brewed in his mind.

"Fuck, man, gi... give it... give it... back... man," Pierce slurred, collapsing onto the couch.kl

"You can't even form a sentence. That's how drunk you are," Alex hissed, dropping the bottle on the center table.

"Just let him be," said Timothy, who had been silent until now.

Where Alex was the logical one, Timothy was the quiet watcher. He rarely said much, and tonight, he just sat back, observing Pierce with unreadable eyes.

"Yeah, and watch him kill himself," Alex glared at him.

"A few drinks won't kill him. Besides, I think he's going through some stuff," Timothy responded, still staring at Pierce.

This was the first time either of them had seen Pierce like this. The man who was always the life of the party was now just... lost. Withdrawn.

"Yeah, right," Alex muttered under his breath.

Sitting close to Pierce was Betty Owens, a glamorous socialite and loud fuck buddy-at least, that's what she liked to call it. Truthfully, Betty had never been just a fling. She was obsessed with him.

She rubbed his chest softly, her voice a breathy murmur. "Come on, Pierce, you can confide in me. What's wrong? Why are you down?"

Pierce ignored her, his mind buried deep in thoughts of Camille... and the possibility that the child she carried might actually be his.

Betty leaned in, tracing a line down his chest with a perfectly manicured finger. "Or," she whispered, "how about I help you forget?"

From across the room, Georgina-Betty's best friend and the only woman in the room not obsessed with Pierce-watched the whole scene unfold with disbelief. She never understood what Betty saw in the man. Sure, he was rich and devastatingly handsome, but Georgina could see the wreckage behind that charm.

Pierce shoved Betty away. "Fuck you! And fuck her! You all out here trying to ruin my life, and I won't let her! If I have to kill her, then so be it!" he roared, staggering to his feet.

Alex stood at once, alarmed. "Who do you want to kill, Pierce?" he demanded, eyes locked on his friend.

"None of your business," Pierce spat, storming out of the VIP room in a drunken rage.

Betty jumped up, scrambling after him. "Pierce, wait!"

He shoved her aside roughly. "Get the fuck away from me!" he screeched.

Luckily, Alex caught her before she hit the ground. For a split second, his arms tightened around her-too tightly. But the moment she landed in his hold, Betty recoiled like his touch burned her. She didn't even look at him.

"Pierce!!" she screamed and sprinted after him. But by then, Pierce Landon was already out of the VIP room-and out of the club-drunkenly speeding home.

"I hope he doesn't actually kill anyone," Alex muttered, standing next to Betty, who was now panting hard. "And that he gets home safe this time."

Timothy appeared beside them, a drink in his hand. "His father is the fucking General. No trouble would befall him."

If Alex didn't know better, he'd think he heard resentment in Timothy's voice.

***

Pierce Landon drove into his father's estate like a man possessed. The guards jumped out of the way, too afraid to end their lives on a Thursday night.

He stumbled out of his car, swaying violently, and made his way to the front doors of the estate. As he approached, the guards scrambled to open them.

"WHERE... IS... GEN... GENRAL!!" Pierce bellowed, the words barely coherent.

"You can't see your father in this state. I'll take you to your room," Ms. Elizabeth offered quickly, rushing forward.

"LET GO OF ME... LET GO... WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!" Pierce screamed, his voice echoing through the mansion.

General Landon, awakened from his sleep, rushed out of his room. As he reached the top of the staircase, Pierce's voice thundered from below.

"GET HIM HERE, FATHER!!!!!!"

"What is the meaning of this, son? It is the middle of the night," the General said calmly. It wasn't the first time his son had torn through the house like a storm.

"And here comes the best father in the world!" Pierce jeered, mock-clapping with exaggerated venom.

The General exhaled sharply. "Take him to his room."

"Yes, sir," Ms. Elizabeth nodded, grabbing Pierce's arm-but he jerked away instantly.

"You want a baby, don't you? You want a fucking heir! Well, THAT IS NEVER HAPPENING! I DIDN'T GET THAT BITCH PREGNANT!"

"Leave the confirmation to the DNA results," the General replied coldly, motioning to the soldiers at the door.

Pierce let out a bitter, guttural laugh. "If you think I'll let you win, you're delusional! You don't deserve anything good in your life. You- let me go, LET GO OF MY HAND!" he roared as the soldiers grabbed him.

Upstairs, the chaos had woken someone else.

Camille Owens.

And even though she knew the smart thing would be to mind her business, curiosity had a stronger pull. Quietly, she stepped into the hallway, her heart racing.

Pierce's voice echoed louder now. "I WON'T LET YOU GET YOUR WAY! I'LL KILL THAT BITCH IF I HAVE TO!"

Camille gasped, covering her mouth.

Until now, she had thought Pierce was just a reckless playboy trying to escape responsibility. But hearing this... she realized something deeper, something darker was going on. And it might be bigger than anything she was prepared for.

"Drag him if you have to. Lock him in his room. I don't want to see him until he sobers up," the General said, eerily calm.

"Why? Gonna lock me up like you did my mother?" Pierce shouted, thrashing as they dragged him past the hallway-away from Camille's room. "YOU KILLED HER! SHE'S DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!"

His screams faded behind a slammed door.

Camille stood frozen, heart thudding in her chest.

"Check on the girl. See if she was woken up," the General told Ms. Elizabeth.

"Yes, sir."

Camille darted back into her room and dived under the covers, feigning sleep.

Seconds later, the door creaked open. "Camille?" Ms. Elizabeth called gently.

Silence.

After another call, Ms. Elizabeth closed the door and left.

Camille opened her eyes, breath trembling.

What on earth had she just stumbled into?

Did the General kill his wife?

And if the baby growing inside her really was Pierce's... would those threats become real?