Pregnant Oracle: The CEO's Most Dangerous Mistake

The stirrups were cold against her heels, a biting chill that seeped through the thin paper gown and settled deep into her bones. Anona Blanchard stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains to keep from screaming. One looks like a bruised lung. Another like a drowning face.

Done. The nurse snapped her latex gloves off, the sound like a rubber band snapping against raw skin.

Anona didn't move. She couldn't. Her lower abdomen throbbed, a dull, invasive ache where they had just planted the future of Caldwell Holdings.

You can get dressed, Mrs. Caldwell. The nurse didn't look at her. She was busy updating a digital chart, her face illuminated by the blue light of the tablet. The transfer is complete.

Anona sat up too quickly. The room spun. She gripped the edge of the examination table, her knuckles turning the color of old bone.

Is that it? Anona asked, her voice raspy.

The nurse finally glanced up, her expression flat. The asset is in place. You have your instructions regarding bed rest.

The asset. Not a baby. Not a child. An asset.

Anona slid off the table. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, someone weaker. She walked to the small changing area behind the curtain. Her hands shook as she buttoned her blouse. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but her eyes were dark, burning with a cold fire.

She remembered Alexander's voice from the night before, swirling in her head like toxic smoke. This is the only reason you are here, Anona. Do not fail me.

She pulled her lipstick from her purse. Ruby Woo. She applied it like war paint, a slash of red across a canvas of white.

She walked out of the clinic without waiting for the discharge papers. The wind on the street hit her face, carrying the scent of exhaust and wet pavement. Her driver wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. Alexander liked to make her wait.

She raised a hand and hailed a yellow cab.

Caldwell Tower, she told the driver.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had memorized but never saved.

It's done, she said when the line clicked open.

A pause. Are you sure, Anona? Once we start this...

Print the papers, Arthur. Plan B. I'm going to see him now.

She hung up. Her hand rested on her stomach. There was nothing there yet, just a cluster of cells and a contract, but she felt a fierce, terrifying protectiveness rise in her throat.

Alexander Caldwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, looking down at Manhattan as if it were a game board he had already won.

He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. Repeat that.

The voice on the other end was static-filled but unmistakable. Harrison Sterling. His uncle. The man who actually held the leash Alexander liked to pretend didn't exist.

There was a protocol breach at the lab, Alexander. A catastrophic one. A high-value sample was compromised.

Alexander felt a drop of sweat slide down his spine. His grip on his phone tightened until the screen protector cracked.

That's impossible, Alexander said, his voice low. The donor was anonymous. Third party.

It was supposed to be. But their security is a sieve. Find out which sample was swapped and who the recipient was. If a Sterling heir has been planted in some random surrogate, you better fix it. That bloodline does not go to waste.

Alexander's mind raced. If Harrison found out the "random surrogate" was Anona-his own wife-the merger was dead. His inheritance was dead. The breach itself was a disaster, but Harrison knowing he'd used his own wife as the vessel for an anonymous donor was a death sentence.

I'll handle it, Alexander said. I'll track down the recipient. The product will be terminated.

Do not call a Sterling a product, Harrison snapped. Find the woman.

Alexander ended the call. He turned around, his face a mask of controlled fury.

The heavy oak doors to his office swung open. His secretary stammered an apology, but Anona was already inside.

She looked like a ghost dressed in Chanel. Her black suit was sharp enough to cut glass, and her red lips were a wound.

You're supposed to be in bed, Alexander said, checking his watch. Incubating my investment.

Anona walked to his desk. She didn't sit. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick document, bound in blue legal paper. She threw it onto the mahogany surface. It slid across the polished wood and stopped inches from his hand.

Alexander looked down. DIVORCE SETTLEMENT.

He let out a short, dry laugh. Is this a joke? Hormones kicking in already?

Anona leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk. Her eyes locked onto his.

The contract is breached, Alexander. I'm done being your show pony. I'm done being your broodmare.

Alexander picked up the document. He didn't even open it. He walked over to the industrial shredder in the corner of the room and fed the papers into the mouth of the machine.

The grinding noise filled the silence, violent and final.

He turned back to her, dusting his hands.

You signed the prenup, Anona. Page forty-two. You don't get to leave. You don't get to breathe unless I say so.

Anona didn't flinch. She watched the confetti of her freedom fill the bin.

We'll see, she said softly.

We'll see whose stock crashes first.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage, the air thick with the smell of rubber and gasoline. Anona walked toward the reserved spot where the town car usually waited.

Empty.

She stopped, her heels clicking against the concrete. She pulled out her phone. A notification from Alexander's executive assistant sat on the screen.

Per Mr. Caldwell: Clause 14. Non-business travel is not reimbursable. Vehicle privileges suspended.

Anona stared at the screen. Her stomach cramped, a sharp, twisting pain that made her gasp. She leaned against a concrete pillar, closing her eyes. He was cutting off her legs to see if she would crawl.

She pushed off the pillar and walked toward the exit ramp.

Outside, the sky had broken open. A torrential New York downpour hammered the pavement, turning the gutters into rivers.

Anona stood under the small overhang of the parking garage exit. She opened her ride-share app. No cars available.

She shivered. The dampness was seeping into her incision site. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold the pieces of her body together.

A long, black car slowed down as it approached the exit. It wasn't a town car. It was a Maybach 62S, a sleek predator of a vehicle that cost more than most people earned in a decade.

The rear window rolled down halfway.

Anona took a step back, water splashing onto her ankles.

Get in, Mrs. Caldwell.

The voice was deep, resonant, and commanded rather than asked.

Anona peered into the gloom of the backseat. Harrison Sterling sat there, a shadow among shadows.

She hesitated. Alexander's uncle. The man Alexander feared. The man everyone feared.

She looked at the rain, then at the open door. She didn't have a choice.

She climbed in.

The interior was silent and smelled of expensive leather and faint sandalwood. It was warm.

Harrison didn't look at her. He was reading a financial newspaper, his legs crossed.

Thank you, Mr. Sterling, Anona said, her voice steady despite the shivering. The subway station on 5th is fine.

Harrison turned a page. A Caldwell wife on the subway? Alexander's stock would dip three points before you swiped your MetroCard.

Anona let out a small, bitter laugh. Maybe that's the point.

Harrison lowered the paper. He looked at her then. Really looked at her. His eyes were the color of steel, sharp and assessing. He took in her wet hair, the pale exhaustion in her face, the way her hand hovered protectively over her lower stomach.

His gaze lingered on her hand.

Harrison's jaw tightened. He had just come from a meeting with his private investigators about the lab breach. They were scouring the city for the woman who had received the compromised sample. Alexander had assured him it was a stranger.

Harrison looked at Anona again. She was too thin. Too pale. And far too protective of an abdomen that held, as far as he knew, an anonymous donor's child. His gaze dropped to her hand, and a cold, possessive fury coiled in his gut. His nephew was a fool, treating a priceless investment with such carelessness, regardless of its origin.

To the Blanchard Estate, Harrison said to the driver.

Anona turned to him, startled. How did you know?

You look like a stray cat that's been kicked off the porch, Harrison said, his voice devoid of sympathy but heavy with something else. Where else would you go but back to the litter?

Anona stiffened. She turned her head to look out the window, watching the rain streak the glass.

I'm not a cat, Mr. Sterling. I'm an accountant.

Harrison watched her profile. She didn't cry. She didn't complain about her husband leaving her stranded. She just endured.

Interesting definition, he murmured.

The car hummed as it merged into traffic. The warmth of the heated seat began to seep into Anona's back. The adrenaline of the morning crashed. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Within minutes, her breathing evened out. Her head lolled to the side, resting against the cool glass.

Harrison watched her sleep. He saw her hand twitch in her lap, still guarding her stomach.

He felt a strange, irrational spike of anger directed at his nephew. He reached over and tapped the climate control, raising the temperature two degrees. It was a calculated measure to preserve the asset's stability, nothing more.

The heavy oak doors of the Blanchard manor groaned as Anona pushed them open. The foyer was exactly as she remembered: cold, imposing, and smelling of lemon polish and old money.

Her mother, Eleanor Blanchard, was arranging lilies in a crystal vase. She didn't look up.

You're early, Eleanor said. Alexander told me you have a gala tonight.

Anona walked to the center of the room. Her legs felt like lead.

I want a divorce, Mother. He's insane.

Eleanor froze. She set down a lily and walked briskly to the parlor doors, closing them with a sharp click. She turned on Anona, her face twisted in a scowl.

Have you lost your mind? Eleanor hissed. The merger papers are being signed next week. If you leave him now, the Blanchard name is mud. We lose the capital injection. We lose everything.

Anona stared at the woman who gave birth to her. I care about my life, Mother. Not Father's business.

Your life is this business, Eleanor snapped. Go back. Apologize to Alexander. Fix your face.

Anona shook her head, backing away toward the stairs. No.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A relentless, angry vibration.

She pulled it out. Alexander.

She answered and put it on speaker.

Done crying to mommy? Alexander's voice drawled, tinny and cruel. Check your email.

Anona's hands trembled as she pulled her tablet from her bag. She tapped the mail icon.

A legal notice. Breach of contract. Moral turpitude clause.

And attachments.

Photos. Grainy, out of context. Anona having coffee with a male classmate from college three years ago. Anona hugging her cousin.

Alexander laughed softly on the other end. You want a divorce? Fine. Admit to the affair. Leave with nothing. I'll ruin you in the press by morning.

It's a lie! Anona shouted, her voice cracking. That was three years ago!

The media doesn't care about timestamps, Anona. They care about headlines. 'Pregnant Caldwell Wife Caught Cheating.' Has a nice ring to it.

Gaslighting. He was trying to make her doubt her own reality, trying to crush her beneath the weight of a fabricated sin.

Anona took a deep breath. She forced the tremor out of her voice.

If you release those, I release Christy Shaw's payroll records. I know you're funneling company money to her.

Silence on the line. Heavy and dangerous.

You touch Christy, Alexander whispered, his voice dropping an octave, and I pull the plug on your sister.

The air left Anona's lungs.

The facility is owned by a shell company I control, Anona. One phone call, and her ventilator stops.

The line went dead.

Anona sank onto the bottom step of the grand staircase. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the marble floor.

Her sister. The only person in this world who had ever loved her without a price tag.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach. If Alexander knew she was actually pregnant-if he knew the IVF worked-he would own this child too.

She couldn't fight him with anger. She couldn't fight him with truth.

She needed leverage. Nuclear leverage.

Anona stood up. She wiped her face. She walked up the stairs, past her old bedroom, to the hidden wall safe in the back of her closet.

She spun the dial. Left, right, left.

Inside sat a battered black laptop. It hadn't been turned on in two years.

She opened it. The screen flickered to life, casting a blue glow on her face.

She wasn't just Anona Blanchard, the trophy wife. She was Oracle.

She cracked her knuckles. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the firewalls she had helped build.

If he wanted a war, she would burn his kingdom down from the inside.