His Bet, Her Unforgivable Revenge

My ex-husband returned after a three-year bet, ready to reclaim me and the son he thought was his. He had no idea that I'd secretly aborted his child, divorced him, and remarried the day he left. His world was about to come crashing down.

His delusion turned deadly when he and his manipulative best friend, Haylee, kidnapped my son, Leo.

I found them at his family's mansion, with Leo suffocating from a severe allergic reaction to a dog they were forcing him to play with. Elliot physically restrained me, scolding me for overreacting while Haylee giggled as my son turned blue.

At the hospital, as Leo fought for his life, Elliot grabbed my arm, demanding to know who the man standing beside me was. He was convinced this was all a game to make him jealous.

That's when my real husband, billionaire Gregory Morton, stepped forward.

"Since when is this child yours, Elliot?"

Chapter 1

Clare POV:

Three years after a foolish bet destroyed my marriage, my ex-husband Elliot Fields returned, expecting to reclaim me and the son he believed was his. The bet-a three-year separation to "test our love"-had been Haylee Heath's idea, fueled by her secret obsession with Elliot. I had been secretly pregnant at the time. I divorced him, married Gregory Morton the same day he left, and two days later, I quietly ended the pregnancy I was carrying. Gregory was a man who saw my worth long before Elliot's arrogance blinded me.

The doorbell chimed. I knew who it was before I opened the door. Elliot stood there in the late afternoon sun, a bouquet of crimson roses in one hand and a small velvet box in the other. His smile was wide and self-assured, the kind that used to melt my heart but now curdled my stomach. He wore an expensive suit, his dark hair impeccably styled, his blue eyes gleaming with possessive entitlement.

"Clare," he said, smooth and confident. "I'm back, just like I promised."

I didn't move. He pushed the roses closer. "These are for you. And this." He gestured with the box. "A little something to mark our reunion."

His eyes scanned my face, searching for the old Clare. He expected tears or a joyful embrace. But that woman was long gone.

"I knew you'd be waiting," he continued, stepping closer. "The bet only proved how deeply we were connected."

His words brought the past rushing back. Three years ago in Las Vegas, celebrating his real estate deal. Haylee, with her deceptively sweet smile, had challenged him: "If Clare truly loves you, she'll wait. Divorce her for three years. If she's still there, then it's real."

I had just confirmed my pregnancy. I planned to tell him that night. Instead, he laughed. "Three years? That's nothing! Clare would never leave me. Right, darling? Just a little test. You'll be right here."

I said nothing. His agreement to the bet was the final blow-not just the bet itself, but his utter disregard for me, for our child. He believed I was so dependent, so devoted, that I would simply wait like a loyal pet.

That night, I cried until my eyes burned. But with the tears came clarity. This wasn't love. It was possession. The next morning, I decided: I would not wait. I would not bring a child into a life with a man who could discard us for a game.

I hired a divorce lawyer the next day. Elliot, in his supreme confidence, barely noticed. He didn't know I was marrying Gregory Morton on the same day the divorce was finalized. And he certainly didn't know that two days later, I ended the pregnancy.

Now, standing on my doorstep, Elliot extended the bouquet further. "Aren't you going to take these, Clare? Give me a hug?"

I stepped back. "Elliot, I'm married now."

Clare POV:

Elliot's smile faltered. "Married?" He chuckled, dismissive. "Is that a new way of saying you're still mad at me? It was just a test, Clare. A silly game. It's over now."

He reached out to cup my cheek. "Come here. Let me give you a proper hug. We've wasted enough time apart."

I stepped back again, my expression hardening. "You need to respect my boundaries. I am a married woman."

His hand froze. Confusion flickered across his face, replaced by annoyance. He couldn't fathom that I meant it.

"Still playing hard to get," he said, a patronizing smile returning. "Fine. Name your price. Money, a house, trips. Whatever it takes to make you forgive me. You know I can give you anything."

He genuinely believed my anger was a performance, a tactic to extract more from him. He saw me as a commodity.

He advanced. I retreated until my back hit the wall. He cornered me, leaning in, his breath warm on my face. "Is it a boy or a girl, Clare?" he whispered. "I always pictured a son first. A little Elliot." His fingers brushed my cheek.

The casual touch sent a jolt of pain through me-a reminder of the child he had discarded. He never called me during those three years. Not once. He was too busy living his life, confident that I would wait, silently carrying his imaginary child.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

Just as I was about to speak, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out. The screen read: "Haylee, My Angel."

Without an apology, he answered. His face softened instantly.

Clare POV:

A whimpering sob came through the phone. Haylee's voice, thick with feigned tears. "Elliot, darling? My head hurts so much. I feel so dizzy."

His eyes blazed with concern. He barely registered my presence. "Haylee? Where are you? I'm coming. Don't move."

He hung up and gave me a quick pat on the head-dismissive, like a pet. "Stay here, Clare. Be a good girl. Haylee needs me." Then he sprinted down the driveway and sped off.

Moments later, a notification buzzed. Haylee had posted a photo: her looking pale and vulnerable, nestled in Elliot's arms on a velvet sofa. His hand massaged her temple. The caption read: "My darling Elliot, always there for me. The best man in the world."

I clicked 'like'.

I had liked countless posts like this over three years. Photos of them on yachts, him carrying her shopping bags, her lounging in my former marital home, replacing my belongings. She made sure I saw every one.

She thought my likes were desperate pleas for attention. But each click was my silent message: I don't care. You won nothing. You're still pathetic.