Divorcing The Cold Billionaire After Baby Birth

The crisp sound of heavy paper sliding across polished marble cut through the dead air of the Sterling estate's side room.

Aria Miller sat on the very edge of the velvet sofa. Her knuckles were entirely white as her fingers twisted the cheap, frayed strap of her canvas tote bag. She kept her eyes fixed on the slip of paper. It was a check. Seven figures. The zeros blurred together under the harsh light of the crystal chandelier above them.

"Take it." Victor Sterling's voice was a low, mechanical scrape. He sat across from her, leaning back in a leather armchair. He didn't look at her face. He looked at her like she was a stain on his rug. "Take it, and disappear from New York by tonight."

Aria's chest tightened. The air in the room was thick, suffocating. She tried to draw a breath, but her lungs refused to expand. She stared at the check. That piece of paper could pay off the crushing debt at her grandmother's nursing home in a second. It could save her life. But the sheer malice radiating from the man across from her made her stomach twist into a hard, painful knot.

"I didn't plan this," Aria forced the words past the sandpaper in her throat. She released her death grip on the bag and pushed the check back across the cold marble table. Her fingertips were freezing. "That night was an accident. I don't want your money."

Victor let out a short, hollow laugh. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement was predatory, closing the distance between them.

"Save the performance," Victor sneered, his jaw muscles flexing under his skin. "You played the long game. You targeted the trust fund. But your acting is pathetic. You gold diggers always use the same script."

The words hit her like physical blows. Aria opened her mouth to yell back, to tell him he was a paranoid monster. She planted her feet on the floor, ready to stand up.

Then, the overwhelming, spicy scent of his cologne hit the back of her throat.

A violent spasm ripped through her stomach. The acid rushed up her esophagus so fast she barely had time to react. Aria slapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes widening in sheer panic. She swallowed hard, trying to force it down, but her body was completely out of her control.

Victor watched her face turn the color of ash. His dark eyes narrowed into slits. "Still playing the victim? You think faking an illness is going to-"

Aria didn't hear the rest. She shoved the heavy marble coffee table away with her knees, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor. She scrambled to her feet and bolted toward the hallway.

She hit the doorframe with her shoulder, stumbling into the corridor. Her vision swam with involuntary tears. She dragged her hand along the silk wallpaper, desperate.

She slammed the door open, dropped to her knees on the cold tile, and gripped the edges of the porcelain toilet bowl. She retched violently. The sound tore from her throat, raw and agonizing. Her stomach cramped so hard she couldn't breathe.

Outside the bathroom, Victor stopped. He stared at the half-open door. The horrific sounds echoing from the tile made his skin crawl. He adjusted his silk tie, his fingers rigid. Disgust rolled off him in waves. He thought she was putting on a show. A desperate, disgusting show.

"Victor!"

The sharp crack of a silver cane hitting the hardwood floor echoed from the base of the grand staircase. Madam Sterling stood there, her sharp eyes fixed on the bathroom door. She wore a tailored suit, her posture rigid.

"What in God's name did you do to that girl?" the old woman demanded, her voice echoing in the massive hallway.

Victor dragged a hand through his dark hair, his frustration boiling over. "It's a trick, Grandmother. She's trying to extort-"

The sound of running water interrupted him. Aria stepped out of the bathroom. She leaned heavily against the doorframe. Her face was devoid of all color, her forehead slick with cold sweat. Her legs shook so badly she looked like she might collapse. Her right hand was pressed tightly against her lower abdomen.

Madam Sterling's eyes darted to Aria's hand. The old woman's pupils contracted. She didn't look at Victor. She turned her head slightly. "Get Dr. Chambers. Now."

"We don't need a doctor for a scam artist," Victor snapped, stepping forward to block the hallway.

Madam Sterling slammed her cane down again, the sound like a gunshot. "Silence! Move out of the way."

Two maids rushed forward, wrapping their arms around Aria's trembling shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged her down the hall and into a first-floor guest bedroom. The heavy oak door clicked shut, cutting off Victor's view.

Victor stood alone in the hallway. He leaned his shoulders against the wall, his jaw locked. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hitting the screen with unnecessary force. He texted his assistant, Dylan. Dig up everything on Aria Miller. Every single detail.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Chambers hurried through the front doors, medical bag in hand. He gave Victor a brief nod before disappearing into the guest room.

Inside the room, Aria lay flat on the mattress. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the doctor wrapped a tourniquet around her arm. She watched the needle pierce her vein, the dark blood filling the vial. She felt entirely helpless.

Thirty minutes dragged by. The heavy oak door finally opened. Dr. Chambers stepped out, pulling his stethoscope from his ears. His face was unreadable.

Madam Sterling gripped the head of her cane, her knuckles white. "Well?"

Dr. Chambers cleared his throat. He looked directly at Madam Sterling. "She is severely dehydrated and exhausted. And she is six weeks pregnant."

Madam Sterling let out a sharp gasp. Her hand flew to her chest. A massive, triumphant smile broke across her wrinkled face. "Praise God." she whispered, her eyes shining with sudden tears.

Victor froze and the blood drained from his face. He stared at the closed oak door,his chest stopped moving. The words echoed in his skull. Six weeks pregnant. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

He was absolutely certain now. She had used her own body to secure the ultimate bargaining chip.

Victor shoved the heavy oak door open. It hit the wall with a violent thud. He marched straight to the edge of the bed, his tall frame casting a dark shadow over the mattress.

Aria had just managed to sit up against the pillows. When she saw the sheer, unadulterated murder in his eyes, her breath hitched. She shrank back against the headboard, her arms instinctively crossing over her flat stomach.

"Listen to me very carefully," Victor hissed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He leaned over her, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "You will not get a single cent from the Sterling family for that parasite in your stomach."

Before Aria could open her mouth, Madam Sterling marched into the room. She didn't hesitate. She swung her silver cane and cracked it hard against the back of Victor's calf.

Victor flinched, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth. He spun around, staring at his grandmother in absolute disbelief. She had just struck him over a stranger.

"Get out of my sight and cool your head," Madam Sterling ordered, her voice like cracking ice.

Victor's jaw tightened until a muscle ticked in his cheek. He shot one last, venomous glare at Aria before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

Madam Sterling's face instantly softened. She sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to pat Aria's trembling hand.

Aria pulled her hand back slightly. "Please," she whispered, her throat still raw. "I don't want his money. I can raise this child on my own."

"Nonsense," Madam Sterling interrupted. Her tone was gentle, but there was a steel rod running through it. "Sterling blood does not live in the gutter."

The old woman reached into her tailored jacket pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of paper and laid it flat on the blanket over Aria's lap.

Aria looked down. It was a billing statement from the Brooklyn nursing home where her grandmother, Mary Miller, lived. The final balance at the bottom was circled in red. It was a number Aria saw in her nightmares.

Aria's pupils dilated. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. This was her throat, exposed and bare.

"Marry Victor. Have the child," Madam Sterling said smoothly. "And Mary will be moved to a private suite in Manhattan . Every medical bill, every specialist, fully paid for."

Aria stared at the red ink. Her pride screamed at her to tear the paper up. But the image of her grandmother's failing heart monitor flashed behind her eyes. She couldn't afford pride.

The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a physical weight pressing down on Aria's chest. Finally, she closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the collar of her shirt.

"Okay," Aria choked out.

Madam Sterling smiled, a genuine, happy smile. She patted Aria's knee, stood up, and walked out of the room.

She found Victor in the first-floor study. He was standing by the liquor cabinet, aggressively pouring amber liquid into a crystal glass. The ice clinked sharply against the sides.

"I've scheduled the appointment at City Hall for tomorrow morning," Madam Sterling announced from the doorway.

Victor slammed the glass down on the mahogany desk. The whiskey splashed over the rim, staining the wood. "I am not marrying that grifter!" he roared.

Madam Sterling didn't blink. "If you refuse, I will use my authority as the matriarch. I will freeze every liquid asset and strip every voting share you have outside the trust."

Victor stared at her. He felt like a caged animal. He knew the family bylaws. She wasn't bluffing. She could cripple his operations on Wall Street by noon tomorrow.

He raised his fist and brought it down hard on the desk. The wood groaned. His knuckles split, a thin line of blood welling up. He ground his teeth together. "Fine."

The next morning, a black Rolls-Royce idled outside the estate gates. A cold, miserable drizzle fell from the gray sky.

Aria stood on the wet pavement, wearing a faded khaki trench coat. She twisted her fingers together, staring at the tinted windows.

The front doors of the mansion opened. Victor walked out. He wore a bespoke dark suit. He didn't look at her. He didn't even acknowledge she existed. He walked straight to the car, opened the rear door, and slid inside.

Aria pulled her collar tight against the rain. She walked to the other side of the car, pulled the heavy door open, and got in. She brought the damp chill of the rain with her.

The air pressure inside the cabin was suffocating. An invisible wall of ice separated them. Victor stared out his window. Aria stared at her hands.

They arrived at City Hall. Victor put on a pair of dark sunglasses before stepping out. He walked fast, his long legs eating up the concrete stairs. Aria had to jog slightly to keep up.

Inside, they stood before a confused clerk. They signed the standard forms mechanically. There were no rings. There were no vows.

The clerk handed them the thin piece of paper. "Congratulations."

Victor let out a sound that was half-scoff, half-snarl.

Aria took the paper. She stared at their names printed side by side in black ink. It felt entirely fake.

They walked out of the building and stopped at the top of the stairs. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. Victor turned his head slowly. He looked down at her, his eyes cutting through her like a serrated blade.

"Welcome to hell." he said.

Victor didn't wait for a response. He walked down the concrete steps, leaving Aria standing alone with her canvas bag. He pulled open the door of the Rolls-Royce and dropped into the leather seat.

Aria pulled her khaki coat tighter around her body. The damp wind bit through the thin fabric. She walked down the steps, went to the opposite side of the car, and slid in. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing them inside the silent, tension-filled cabin.

Victor kept his eyes fixed forward. "Drive," he ordered. He gave the driver, Sean, an address on the very edge of Queens.

Sean's hands jerked on the steering wheel. He looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with shock. He opened his mouth to ask if there was a mistake, caught the lethal glare from his boss, and immediately put the car in gear.

Aria knew New York. She knew exactly what kind of neighborhood that address belonged to. Her hands, resting in her lap, went completely rigid. She didn't say a word.

The Rolls-Royce glided away from the towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan. Slowly, the scenery shifted. The clean streets gave way to cracked asphalt. The luxury boutiques were replaced by boarded-up storefronts and chain-link fences.

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of a decaying brick apartment building. The exterior walls were covered in faded graffiti. A pile of uncollected trash bags sat leaking on the curb.

A group of teenagers in oversized hoodies stopped walking. They stood on the corner, whistling and pointing at the half-million-dollar vehicle parked in their neighborhood.

Victor turned his head slowly. He looked at Aria. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a cruel, satisfied smirk. "Your new home."

Aria looked out the window. She saw the grime on the glass doors of the lobby. She knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to break her. He expected her to scream, to cry, to beg him to take her back to the mansion.

Instead, Aria turned back to him. Her face was completely blank. She gave a single, short nod. "Understood."

She reached for the door handle.

Victor's smirk vanished. His chest tightened with a sudden, violent surge of frustration. It felt like he had swung a baseball bat and hit empty air.

Just as Aria pushed the door open, Victor's hand shot out. He slammed his palm against the lock button. The doors locked with a heavy clunk. He leaned toward her, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Don't play games with me. You won't last two days here."

Aria met his gaze. She didn't flinch. "I know you want a divorce. The second this baby is born, I will sign whatever you want. I will leave with nothing."

Victor let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Leaving with nothing? A classic negotiation tactic. You think playing the martyr will make me lower my guard."

Aria didn't argue. She reached over, manually flipped the lock, and shoved the heavy door open. She stepped out into a puddle of murky water. The cold water soaked instantly through the canvas of her cheap sneakers.

A gust of wind blew a crumpled newspaper past her legs. She looked incredibly small standing against the backdrop of the massive, rotting building.

Victor watched her back. A sudden, irritating thought pierced through his anger. She was pregnant. If she miscarried in this dump, the old woman would have his head.

He rolled down the window. "Sean will pick you up every morning," Victor snapped. "Don't flatter yourself. It's just to keep my grandmother off my back."

Aria stopped walking. She didn't turn around. "I can take the subway."

Victor's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. "I said, Sean will drive you. Do not test my patience."

Aria closed her eyes for a second. She was too tired to fight over a car ride. She gave a slight nod and walked toward the building.

She pulled open the heavy glass door. The lobby was dark. The overhead light fixture was shattered. She pulled out her phone, turned on the flashlight, and walked towards the elevator.

Inside the Rolls-Royce, Victor sat perfectly still. His gaze fixed on the third floor. He kept watching until the light disappeared on the third floor.

Sean looked back nervously. "Sir? Should I arrange a security detail?"

"Drive," Victor spat.

The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the curb, speeding out of the neighborhood as if trying to outrun a disease.

Aria stood in front of apartment 3B. She pushed the rusty key into the lock and turned it. The door groaned open.

A thick smell of dust and stale air hit her face. The living room was completely empty. Spiderwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. The floorboards were scuffed and dull.

Aria dropped her canvas bag on the floor. She didn't cry. She walked into the tiny kitchen, found a plastic bucket under the sink, and rolled up her sleeves. She had work to do.