PREGNANT BY MY FIANCE'S BILLIONAIRE BROTHER

Two pink lines.

I stared at them in the marble bathroom of the Lion's Head Cliff Mansion while downstairs my fiancé's mother was serving salmon to billionaires, and outside the bathroom door the ocean was roaring.

My name is Linda Long. I am 25. I am from East London. Oxford First Class. Marketing Manager at Richness Waves. Engaged to a billionaire who has never touched me.

And I am pregnant with his brother's baby.

Three months ago I was a virgin. Not because I chose to be holy. Because no one had ever really wanted me.

My fiancé is Dawn Beige. 30. CEO of Discovery Enterprise. Handsome like a cologne ad. Soft hands, soft voice, perfect suit. He found me at a launch when I had no job and no rent. He gave me everything — a Sea Point condo with a sea view, a white Lamborghini with a pink ribbon, fifty thousand rand every month, and a title.

"This is my future wife," he told everyone. "Linda Long. Oxford. Perfect image."

He groomed me. That is the right word. He bought me white shirts, nude heels, pearls. He taught me how to hold champagne, how to smile when Nandy Jordan insulted my accent, how to be the perfect Beige wife image. He told me we were waiting till marriage. For God. For respect.

I believed him. For six months I slept alone in his condo in a silk nightgown he bought for me. He kissed my forehead. Never my body.

I know now. He is gay. Deep in the closet. He needed a perfect Oxford wife as a shield for his mother Nandy Jordan and the board while he lived his real life quietly in London. I was his shield. He was kind. But he never could want me.

So I was 25. Untouched. Virgin. Starved.

So on July 28th, my 25th birthday, I went to Billionaire Club alone. In red. Not white. Red.

He was there.

Luke Bryan Cranston. 32. First son of Nandy Jordan from her first marriage. Dawn's half-brother. CEO of Richness Waves. Grey eyes cold like the Atlantic. White shirt, sleeves rolled.

He did not know I was Dawn's image.

"What are you celebrating, Miss Long?" he asked.

"My 25th birthday. And celebrating the fact that my fiancé treats me like a priceless doll he's afraid to touch."

I had two glasses of Dom Pérignon.

He looked at me like a problem. Then his eyes went cold.

One storm, one office on the 14th with no cameras, one time a man wanted me — that story is Chapter 2.

Next morning, July 29th, 8 AM, I walked into his boardroom. Not because I was pretty. Because I had proof.

"Show me your CV before my mood is spoilt," he had said at the bar. So I did.

Inside: Oxford distinction, 6 months running Dawn's press image, plus original Sephora sketches Vanelly Jordan stole in April. With timestamps.

He read it. 20 seconds.

"You have proof Vanelly stole the R50M Sephora pitch?"

"Originals. With dates."

That morning I exposed Vanelly, saved the R50M deal. Then he handed me the keycard. For real.

"Miss Long. You start now. Marketing Manager. 120k. Sea office."

I thought that was the end.

It wasn't.

Until August 28th. Two weeks late. Pale. He said in a meeting, "Miss Long, you look pale. See a doctor."

I took a home test in my Sea Point condo. In secret. Two pink lines.

I hid it. Booked a private blood test to keep my job. Told no one.

But someone in this house took my blood without my consent.

Now. September 11th. Sunday family breakfast. Lion's Head Mansion. Six weeks exactly.

Nandy Jordan — 55, twice divorced, queen of this cliff. First husband Mr. Cranston, father of Luke. Second husband Mr. Beige, father of Dawn. She kept her surname Jordan. Owns half of Richness Waves. Thinks every girl from East London wants her sons' money. Looks 35. Cruel in pink shorts.

Her daughter Vanelly Jordan — 33, surgeon, cold, loyal only to Nandy.

Downstairs Nandy is serving salmon. Dawn is downstairs in linen, soft, smiling, holding my hand for photos.

And I am in the bathroom holding a test.

Downstairs Nandy clapped.

"Linda, meet my first son Luke. He just came back from London."

And Luke looked at me across bacon and said, "Miss Long. We have met."

And Dawn smiled and said, "You know my fiancée?"

And my stomach turned hard because I was already six weeks late and the test in my clutch said two pink lines.

I ran to the bathroom. Cold tiles.

Hard knock. "Linda. Open. Now." Luke. Not wet linen, dry white shirt, sleeves rolled, veins hard.

I opened the crack. He saw the pink stick.

"How far along?" he whispered. Not if. How far.

Soft knock. "Linda? My love? Mom is waiting." Dawn.

My phone buzzed loud enough for both to hear.

UNKNOWN: BLOOD RESULTS CONFIRMED: HCG 10452 POSITIVE 6 WEEKS. GIRLS CLINIC 9AM TOMORROW. DR. VANELLY JORDAN. - N. JORDAN CLINIC

I never gave blood to anyone.

Luke read it over my shoulder. Jaw stone. "I did not send this. The Girls Clinic belongs to my mother."

Downstairs, Nandy's voice: "Nandy Jordan is waiting for her future daughter-in-law. And her two sons. Linda?"

Luke leaned close, hand big and hot hovering over my flat stomach, not touching.

"If you are carrying my child, you are not marrying my brother while carrying my heir. Do you understand me, Miss Long?"

Dawn's footsteps closer. "Linda? Luke? What is going on in the bathroom hallway?"

I had two seconds.

One brother offering marriage as image. One brother claiming his heir.

And in my clutch, two pink lines that say 6 weeks pregnant with a billionaire heir Nandy Jordan swore no girl from East London would ever carry.

I wiped red lipstick, put nude on, white dress pure, flat stomach six weeks.

I walked downstairs to eat salmon I could not swallow.

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