My Billion-Dollar Baby

"Congratulations, Ms. Jordan. You're already two months pregnant."

When I heard the doctor say this, I was completely dumbfounded.

Why? Well, that was because I had no idea who the father of the child was.

A little backstory—after two weeks of grueling overtime, I dropped dead. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the terrified look on my heartless boss' face.

My last thought had been, 'Shouldn't I at least squeeze a big payout out of him?' But it turned out I would not even get that chance—I was gone.

The good news? I did not actually die.

The bad news? I transmigrated into a novel.

Plus, it was not just into any character—I became the fake heiress, the foil to the female lead, who had just been kicked out of her wealthy family for framing the real heiress.

If I had arrived a second earlier, I might have had a chance to shamelessly beg for my place back.

The silver lining to all of this? I brought my years of secret savings with me.

I immediately checked my bank account on my phone, and when I saw millions in savings, I almost burst out laughing.

This was pocket change for a wealthy family. But to someone like me—a working stiff scraping by on a few thousand dollars a month—it felt like a fortune from the heavens.

Recalling the tragic end awaiting my character in the novel, I immediately decided to flee from the protagonists and embrace a life of carefree indulgence.

To relieve the stress of my sudden death and new life, I rushed to a bar and did something I had been dreaming of for ages. I spent my money like it was nothing, even hiring ten male models to give me the royal treatment.

The constant cries of my name around me melted my soul, and I completely forgot about my sudden death and all my troubles.

In fact, I was changing boyfriends every three days and living the dream of being a new bride every night.

Nonetheless, I never thought I would actually end up pregnant. I was sure I had taken precautions, but somehow, one hit the target.

Now, I was in big trouble. I had no idea who the father of the child was.

Back home, while I was lying on the couch and staring at the positive test results, I narrowed it down to three suspects based on the timeline.

This felt like taking a blind gamble.

Running off with the baby was not even an option. Although I had some savings, it was not nearly enough to raise a child.

I unblocked all three men's numbers, and when I saw their last names, I suddenly felt a wave of assurance wash over me. Well, at least the baby's formula money would be covered.

One was a Griffin, another a Bailey, and the last a Larsen. From my extensive experience of reading similar novels, I knew these names were practically standard for domineering CEOs. If each of them was not worth at least billions, their names would be wasted on them.

I thought about it for a moment. Who should I confront first? At a critical moment like this, my indecisiveness kicked in.

After agonizing for a while, I still could not decide who to approach first.

Back then, I had broken up with each of them the day after we slept together, moving on to a new fling the next day. If I showed up now, I might actually get myself killed.

I rubbed my belly and thought that at least I had an ace up my sleeve—this baby.

As my fingers hovered over the keyboard, I decided to message all three and see who would respond first. To my surprise, Reuben Griffin replied in seconds.

I knew that this guy would be the most responsive! He had been the most impressive in bed too. He was surprisingly skilled for someone who seemed new to the game.

[You've still got the nerve to contact me?]

I could feel his anger radiating through the screen, and for a moment, I faltered.

Then, I thought of the child growing inside me that would cost me all my money to raise following its birth and immediately snapped a photo of the positive pregnancy test to send to him.

[I'm pregnant. It might be yours.]

Seconds later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. After hesitating for a moment, I picked up.

His furious voice practically exploded through the phone. "Eliza Jordan, explain yourself! What do you mean it might be mine?"

Hearing the anger in his tone, I did not dare say a word.

"Eliza, talk!"

I nervously fiddled with my fingers and mumbled, "Did you forget that after we split, I found someone else the very next day?"

He let out a cold laugh, grinding his teeth as he spoke, "So, what you're saying is, you want me to take responsibility for a child that might not be mine?"

Annoyed, I muttered a soft rebuttal, "There's a 33% chance it's yours. Can you not be so dramatic?"

That set him off completely. He shouted, "What do you mean 33%? Don't tell me there was another guy in those two days? Eliza, you've really outdone yourself. Were the two of us not enough for you?"

How was I supposed to respond to that?

Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, toned thighs, a perfectly round butt, and eight-pack abs—who could resist that?

Not me, that was for sure. So, I played dumb.