Secret Baby Of the Ruthless Billionaire

LISA’S POV: His lips hovered dangerously close to mine, the tension thick in the air, a strange mix of fear and confusion clouding my senses. My breath came in shallow gasps as I struggled to find words, any words, to stop this, but they wouldn’t come. I was trapped, caught in the magnetic pull of his cold, commanding gaze, unable to tear myself away. Then, as if sensing my hesitation, he pulled back, just enough to give me space to breathe but not enough to let me go. His grip on my waist loosened, and I felt his fingers trail down my side, sending an unwelcome shiver through me. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of what was happening, of who he was and why I was here, in his arms, with his eyes boring into me like I was some puzzle he wanted to solve. Before I could piece together a single coherent thought, his voice sliced through the air again, that same low, icy tone that made my stomach clench. “You’re not the person I was expecting,” he said, his voice devoid of war

LISA'S POV My life had settled into an unexpected calm ever since I arrived in California. There was a peacefulness here, an anonymity that soothed my frayed nerves. No one knew me, no one asked questions, and I was grateful for it. I spent most days working quietly on a business I’d started with the money I had gotten from that night—the night I wanted so desperately to forget. The investment I made had turned out better than I could have hoped, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no drama, no heartbreak. Just me, my work, and the slow rhythm of days blending together. But then, the nausea started. At first, I thought it was stress or maybe something I ate. But the queasiness became more frequent, then constant. Every morning, like clockwork, I’d wake up feeling sick to my stomach, unable to keep anything down. I dismissed it for weeks, chalking it up to anxiety or the toll of running a business on my own. But when the dizziness started, along with fatig

LISA'S POV The rain hasn’t stopped for hours. It trickles down the windows in lazy lines, blurring the world beyond the glass like a watercolor in motion. I sit curled up on the couch, a soft gray blanket draped around my shoulders, one hand resting on the curve of my belly. Six months. Just three months left, and everything changes. Again. I run my fingers across the little blue hat I knitted last night, its yarn still holding the warmth of my touch. It’s lopsided and imperfect, but I love it anyway. It’s his first. A tiny promise that I’ll be enough, even if I’m the only one he knows. Even if he never knows who his father is. I want to raise him with so much love. Enough love to soften the absence. Enough to make him whole. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth from the fireplace soak into my skin. The logs crackle softly, the flames casting golden shadows on the floorboards. The baby kicks again, stronger this time, and I press a hand there instinctively.

LISA'S POV: By the time Claire leaves, it's almost midnight. The labor cookies didn't work-at least, not in the miraculous, instant-baby way she swore they would-but I let her leave believing they did something. It's easier that way. Easier than admitting that I'm not ready for this to happen yet. Or maybe that I am, and it still scares me senseless. The cottage feels too quiet in her absence. The fire's died down to a soft glow, and the floorboards creak like they're whispering secrets. I shuffle into the kitchen, pretending to clean up. Mostly, I just move things from one side of the counter to the other, wiping a spotless surface because standing still feels impossible. I glance at the clock. 11:57 p.m. Late enough that normal people would be asleep. But me? I'm wide awake, restless, pacing the small living room like a caged animal. I settle into the armchair by the window-the same one I've claimed as my personal throne these past months-and rest a hand on my belly. "You and m

LISA'S POV The storm had finally broken, but the air was thick, heavy with the scent of rain and damp earth. The world outside my window blurred into soft gray lines as mist clung to the towering trees. The fire in the hearth was down to a glow, and the clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, every second an echo in the stillness. I sat on the couch, a blanket wrapped tight around my shoulders, one hand cradling the swell of my belly. The baby shifted again, a restless roll beneath my palm, and a sharp, aching pressure pulled low in my abdomen. It wasn’t the first one tonight. But this one didn’t let go. I drew in a slow breath and tried to count the seconds, like the midwife taught me. It lasted longer than the last. A dull cramp at first, then a tightening band that made me wince. No. Not yet. I wasn’t ready. The nursery wasn’t finished. The hospital bag sat half-packed in my closet. I still hadn’t settled on a name. And I was alone. Another wave of pain grippe