Pregnant And Fleeing The Ruthless Billionaire

Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window, slicing through the space on the bed like a knife. When Jodi Holden woke up, he found that the environment around him was still empty. The sheets on the side where Armand was were cold, untouched. He was already gone.

She slowly turned over, burying her face in the pillow he had slept on. There was only the cool scent of laundry detergent left, with no trace of warmth. She closed her eyes for a moment, and images of that night five years ago involuntarily flashed in her mind-her standing at the door of his hotel suite, the thin pages of the agreement in her hand, the words as cold and hard as iron. He sat on the sofa, not even getting up to greet her. He said, I need a person, not emotions, not problems, just companionship. And I need to survive. At that time, her mother was still in the intensive care unit, and bills flew in like snowflakes. She didn't hesitate for long.

After that, these nights became the norm. He came, he left, without explanation. She learned not to ask where he spent the night, not to ask why he could sometimes be so gentle as if he were another person, and sometimes disappear as if he had never existed. It was a transaction, not love. At least he always thought so.

Armand Taylor, CEO of the powerful Taylor Company, disappeared again in the darkness before dawn.

In fact, there were no notes at all. Only evidence of his departure-the silk pajamas scattered on the floor, their ties torn last night. In the gentleness he claimed, such a fierce little incident had occurred.

She reached for her phone, which was placed on the nightstand, a habit she detested. The screen was black, with no message notifications. There were no missed calls either. Only the silent screen proved that since he left her bed, he hadn't once thought of her.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then she lightly tapped the email icon. This habit was deeply ingrained-it was a desperate act of trying to gain some recognition, to prove her existence.

A new message appeared at the top of her inbox. The sender was not Armand, but "Taylor Family Office."

Her breath hitched in her throat.

The email subject was a string of project codes. She entered the password she was forced to memorize five years ago. Finally, the email opened.

This process is very simple. No greetings or explanations are needed. Just provide the digital signature of the electronic key, and the address: the top-floor apartment on the west side of Central Park.

A chilling sense of fear washed over her heart, a feeling that was both heavy and intense. It was all over. He was finally going to drive her away, place her in a new place, settle her down, so his life could return to normal-or rather, have her completely disappear from his life. She suddenly realized: this was not a "gift," but an act of expulsion. That apartment was not a "gift" either, but just a worse "prison." Because he needed a clean, traceless place to live, so his fiancée wouldn't discover any traces of his past.

She hadn't had time to completely shake off the thought when her phone vibrated, receiving a text reminder from Credit Suisse.

A seven-digit amount had been received in her private account.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, making a harsh noise as it fell onto the marble floor. The amount was too much. It wasn't pocket money, but rather like a one-time compensation... the final payment for the services she had provided.

Her throat was covered in ice. She endured the pain and picked up the phone, doing something she had not done in a year-she dialed André's private number.

The phone rang six times, each ring seeming to last forever. When he finally answered, she could almost hear his annoyed sigh. In the background, the rhythmic roar of the helicopter's blades rose and fell.

"Jodi."

His voice sounded cold, with a sense of detachment. At that moment, someone interrupted him.

She tried to keep her voice steady, trying to eliminate the panic that was spreading deep within her. "I received that email. And the transfer notification."

A silence fell. "Then what?"

"Armand, what is this?" The question was spoken like a whisper.

A withered, humorless laugh came from that voice. It was the most cruel sound she had ever heard. "As a reward," he said, his voice flat and heartless, "for your behavior last night, for your obedience."

This word struck her like a slap. A reward... Her blood seemed to freeze into a cold liquid in her veins. Her obedience was quantified and transferred to her in the form of an electronic transfer.

"Reward?" she repeated the word, as if it carried the taste of ash in her mouth.

"This apartment was prepared for your convenience. It's a bit closer to the office." His impatience was clear in the call. "Don't be so difficult, Jodi."

He thought she was questioning the value of the gift. Such an extremely generous act was nothing but an insult. He had no idea that she was suffocating from this humiliation. He had just cut away the last remnants of her dignity.

She took a deep breath. The air seemed thin and meaningless. "I understand."

She ended the call.

She didn't say another word. Any more words would be considered "unacceptable" behavior. Any expression of emotion would violate the unspoken agreement between them.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, her bare feet making a soft sound on the cold floor. The view of Manhattan was before her, the city like a glittering, cold, and merciless monster. Beautiful and merciless. Just like him.

Five years have passed. In these five years, she played the role of a flawless, obedient lover. She was so perfect, so obedient, that he forgot she was also a person.

She saw her reflection in the glass window. The faint deep purple marks on her neck seemed to be the marks he left. For the first time, a true, physical sense of nausea washed over her heart.

That money and that apartment were not gifts. They were actually a "gift" that restraint people-a constraint defined by money and space.

She turned away from the window and picked up her phone again. She needed something to distract her. Work, or anything that could stop the screams in her head. She opened the news app.

A headline from the financial section was pushed to the top of her page.

Her fingers trembled as she typed. Her mood was utterly terrible-as if she had fallen into an abyss.

The CEO of Taylor Company, Armand Taylor, will announce his engagement to a member of a European royal family.

This article is brief and somewhat speculative, but the source is reliable. It also includes a blurry photo of Armand at a banquet in Monaco, his head slightly tilted, his gaze fixed on a blonde woman, his profile clear and focused.

At that moment, everything became clear.

The apartment. The money. The so-called "reward."

He wasn't just getting rid of her. He was also clearing evidence, preparing everything for the new owner's arrival, making the house clean and tidy.

A faint smile touched Jodi's lips. The smile was broken and silent. A tear slid down her icy cheek, and another...

She finally understood the price of obedience.

A cold and resolute determination blossomed in her heart. This was not the end of the deal, but the beginning of war. The battle was far from over-she still needed to prepare a document to completely sever ties with him.

The resolve that had crystallized in the cold morning light of the penthouse bedroom followed Jodi to her office at Taylor Corp. The tears of the night before had dried, leaving behind nothing but a layer of cold, hard ice over her heart. It was a quiet, sterile space on a floor far removed from the chaos of the trading desks-a bespoke cage with a view. Her title was "Special Projects Coordinator," a meaningless string of words designed to justify her presence in the building without giving her access to anything that mattered.

She didn't glance at the crisp copy of the Wall Street Journal her assistant had placed on her desk. She already knew what the front page of the business section held.

Instead, she opened her laptop. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, navigating through encrypted folders to a file dated five years and three days ago.

AGREEMENT.pdf

Over a hundred pages long, a labyrinth of legalese drafted by Armand's most ruthless attorneys. Every clause was a carefully constructed brick in her prison.

She scrolled past the definitions, the obligations, the non-disclosure terms that had governed every minute of her life. Her target was Section 9.

Termination Clause.

It stated that either party could request to terminate the agreement with thirty days' written notice. But the fine print was a snake pit. As the receiving party, any termination request from her would trigger an immediate and invasive review. All assets provided to her under the agreement-including the money and the apartment from yesterday-would be frozen pending Armand's personal sign-off that she had not violated a single one of the hundreds of confidentiality stipulations.

A small, mirthless smile touched Jodi's lips. He had thought of everything. This wasn't an agreement; it was a deed of ownership.

She opened a new document.

Subject: Termination of Agreement Request

She wrote with the detached precision of a lawyer. No emotion. No accusations. She simply cited Section 9, Article 2, and formally stated her intent. Cold, professional, and final.

She encrypted the file and attached it to an email addressed to Armand's lead counsel, cc'ing his executive assistant, Grant Fletcher.

The moment she hit "send," a weight she hadn't realized she was carrying lifted from her shoulders. It was the first breath of free air she'd taken in five years.

She leaned back in her chair, gazing at the Manhattan skyline through the window, feeling that long-awaited lightness. But this tranquility lasted only a few minutes.

A sharp knock broke the silence. Grant Fletcher walked in, his face bearing a professional concern-the kind practiced when delivering bad news for the boss. He was tall, and his loyalty to Armand was as meticulously tailored as a well-fitted suit.

He didn't greet her; instead, he placed a photo directly on Jodi's desk. In the photo, Armand Taylor was kneeling on one knee on some terrace in Paris, placing a massive diamond ring on the finger of an elegant woman. A hint of tender, focused adoration crossed Grant's face-a look he had never given Jodi.

"Mr. Armand asked me to deliver this to you personally," Grant said, his tone laced with condescending sympathy. "He was going to tell you himself. But he thought you would take it... more easily if you saw it in a picture."

Jodi stared at the photo for exactly three seconds. Her heart gave a single, painful thud. Then she dragged her gaze away.

"I've seen it, Grant." Her voice was calm. Too calm.

Grant looked surprised by her lack of reaction. He had clearly expected tears, or perhaps a tantrum. "Jodi, Mr. Taylor wanted me to assure you that this... development... doesn't change the terms of your arrangement."

A flicker of a smile, so faint and cold it was barely there, touched her lips. "It does. Because I've changed my mind." She gestured to her screen. "You should have my termination request in your inbox."

The color drained from Grant's face. "You can't. The agreement-"

"The agreement gives me the right to request it," she interrupted, her tone polite but firm. It was a voice he had never heard from her before. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare my handover notes."

He stared at her, his composure rattled. This was not the pliable, quiet woman he was used to dealing with. "You will pay for this decision, Jodi," his voice was very low. "Mr. Armand won't let it go."

"That's his business." She didn't look up.

Grant stood still for a few seconds, as if waiting for her to retract her words. But Jodi calmly turned to the next file. Finally, he left without a word, the sound of the door closing slightly louder than usual.

Jodi began sorting through her files, preparing to document the non-essential projects she managed. She would leave no loose ends, give Armand no excuse to claim she had been negligent.

Her phone buzzed. A blocked number.

She hesitated, then answered. "Jodi Holden."

"Ms. Holden. Sterling Hale-Prescott." The voice was smooth, laced with the easy confidence of old money and an Ivy League education. "A friend of Armand's. I think we should have a chat."

Sterling Hale-Prescott. Heir to one of the oldest banking fortunes in New York. A core member of Armand's inner circle.

Jodi's spine went rigid. This wasn't a friendly call. This was a deployment. Armand was sending in one of his lieutenants to handle the problem.

"I'm quite busy, Mr. Prescott," she said, her voice cool.

A low chuckle on the other end of the line. "Don't be like that, Jodi. It's just an engagement, not a vow of celibacy. There's no need to throw a tantrum. He'll make it up to you."

The condescension in his tone was a physical thing, a slimy film crawling over her skin. They all saw her the same way. A petulant child, a line item on a budget, a problem to be managed with money and patronizing words.

A fire she thought had been extinguished years ago roared to life in her chest.

They had underestimated her. And she would make them pay for that mistake, starting now.

"Fine," Jodi said into the phone, her voice as crisp and cold as the ice water she pictured throwing in Sterling's face. "Le Bernardin. One hour."

She had chosen the three-Michelin-star restaurant on purpose. It was one of Armand's favorites, a place where deals were made and mistresses were never, ever seen. She would meet him in the heart of his world, and she would set it on fire.

She arrived wearing a charcoal gray Tom Ford pantsuit. It was armor, a stark contrast to the soft, feminine dresses Armand preferred her in. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant knot. She looked less like a jilted lover and more like opposing counsel.

Sterling was already seated in a plush private booth, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He didn't stand when she approached. He just smirked, a lazy, entitled expression, and gestured to the seat opposite him.

"Jodi. You clean up nice when you're angry." His eyes roamed over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "Relax. Have a drink."

She sat, placing her handbag deliberately on the seat beside her. She didn't look at the menu. She didn't look at the hovering waiter. She looked directly at Sterling.

He slid a small, navy blue velvet box across the table. Cartier. "A little something from Armand. He thought you might be feeling neglected."

Jodi didn't touch it. "If the purpose of this meeting is to convince me to withdraw my termination request, you're wasting your time, Sterling."

The smirk on his face faltered. "Don't be ungrateful, Jodi. Isabella's family is old-world. Very Catholic, very conservative. Armand needs a clean slate for the public. It doesn't mean your position is redundant."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He can be even more generous after the wedding. You'll just need to be more... discreet."

Jodi listened, her expression unreadable. Her heart was pounding a hard, angry rhythm against her ribs, but her face was a mask of stone.

Her silence was a miscalculation on his part. He thought she was considering the terms. He thought she was weighing her options, calculating her price.

"Or," he added, his smirk returning, uglier this time, "if you get lonely, I'm sure some of us would be happy to keep you company. In our circle, we believe in sharing resources."

That was it. The final, unforgivable line.

In one fluid motion, Jodi picked up the tall glass of ice water from the table and threw its contents directly into his face.

The gasp from Sterling was sharp, shocked. Ice cubes clattered onto his plate. Water dripped from his perfectly styled hair down the collar of his thousand-dollar shirt.

Jodi stood up, looming over him.

"Mr. Prescott," she said, her voice low and shaking with a tightly controlled rage. "Please deliver a message to Armand for me."

She held up one finger. "First, my termination request is not negotiable."

A second finger. "Second, upon the conclusion of the thirty-day review, I will disappear from your lives so completely you'll wonder if I ever existed."

She leaned in, her eyes like chips of ice. "Third-and I want you to listen very carefully-tell Armand to keep his dogs on a leash. Because if any of you ever speak to me like that again, I cannot guarantee the structural integrity of your teeth."

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking a sharp, defiant rhythm on the polished floor. She didn't look back.

She hailed a cab, and only when the door was safely closed behind her did her body begin to tremble. Not fear. Pure, unadulterated fury.

Her phone began to vibrate violently in her purse. Armand Taylor.

She declined the call and blocked his number.

Seconds later, it rang again. Grant Fletcher. She knew who was on the other end. She answered.

"Jodi Holden, have you lost your mind?" Armand's voice was a furious snarl, stripped of all its usual control.

"I've never been more sane in my life, Mr. Taylor," she replied, using the formal address for the first time. It was a declaration of war.

"You think this is a game? Who the hell do you think you are? Everything you have, I gave you! I can freeze your accounts, your assets-I can have you thrown out of this city with nothing but the clothes on your back!"

"Then I suggest you try," she said, her voice eerily calm. "The agreement is quite specific. During the thirty-day review period, all assets are frozen, but they cannot be disposed of without mutual consent or a court order."

A stunned silence on the other end. He never thought she'd read the fine print. He never thought she'd understand it.

"You think you can challenge me with a few legal phrases you barely comprehend?" he finally hissed, his voice dripping with menace. "I will have my lawyers tear you apart. You signed that contract, Jodi. You are my property until I say otherwise."

"We'll see you in court," she said softly.

Then she hung up.

Armand stared at the phone, not just with rage, but with a flicker of something else-perhaps a grudging recognition, or the unsettling realization that the docile woman he thought he owned had just become an unpredictable force. Outside the cab window, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white. The war had begun. And for the first time in five years, Jodi Holden felt truly, terrifyingly alive.