LOGIN“We signed the divorce papers six months ago. Tonight I’m wearing the lingerie he bought me on our honeymoon…and I’m not leaving his penthouse until he remembers why he put a ring on it.” Lila Grant never begged,not when Ethan built his empire on her late-night sketches. Not when he shut her out with silence colder than the marble floors of their Manhattan tomb. Not when she scrawled her signature on the line that severed them. But six months of celibate nights and whiskey-soaked memories have carved her hollow. One look at him across a crowded gala with his new fiancée draped on his arm like a cheap trophy and something primal snaps inside her. She kisses him in front of the cameras. Claims the mouth that once whispered mine against her throat and then she issues the ultimatum that detonates their carefully buried war: Thirty nights. His Hamptons fortress. One bed. No safe words. No surrender. If either of them says the word divorce, the other walks away with everything,money, pride, the last shred of sanity. Ethan never lost until Lila walks back in wearing red silk and the scent of ruin. What begins as a vicious game of who-blinks-first spirals into something darker. Jealousy that tastes like blood on the tongue. Sex that leaves bruises shaped like vows. He wants to punish her for leaving. She wants to burn the memory of his touch out of her skin. Both get exactly what they came for,until the one thing neither planned explodes between them: She’s pregnant. And the man who swore he’d never beg is on his knees
View MoreLila The penthouse smells of coffee and cedar, sunlight pouring through the blinds filling the room.with light. I wake to Ethan’s lips on my collarbone, his hand splayed across my stomach.The false-positive test is buried in a drawer. "i could stay here forever,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. I roll into him, legs tangling. “ You’re getting sentimental.” He nips my ear. “I’m getting laid. There’s a difference.” I laugh, shoving his shoulder. “Romantic.” “Always.” He kisses me slow, lazy, the kind of kiss that says we have all morning. My hands slide under his T-shirt, mapping the ridges I’ve memorized twice over. We move together until the sheets are twisted and the headboard bangs against the wall. After, we shower. He washes my hair, thumbs massaging my scalp until I melt. I trace the scar on his cheek. “Still mad I gave you this?” I ask. He kisses my wrist, right over the tattoo. “Still proud you fought for me.” Breakfast is on the terrace. Theres French toast dro
Lila The morning after the board dinner, Ethan and I wake up to a perfect surprise. Page Six’s headline screams across every phone in the city: GRANT HEIR CHOOSES CHAOS OVER CELESTE: KISS SEEN ROUND THE WORLD Below it there's a crystal-clear shot of Ethan kissing me at The Pierre, my emerald gown slipping off one shoulder, his hand at my throat. The comments are feral. “She’s the villain we deserve.” “Celeste who?” “I’d burn a house for that kiss. I’m still laughing when the elevator chimes at 8:03 a.m. But its not the concierge this time. It's Celeste herself. She steps into the penthouse like she owns it. She's in a white trench cinched tight around her waist. sunglasses hiding last night’s defeat, red soles flashing like fresh blood. Eleanor trails behind her, lips painted the same shade of disapproval she’s worn since Ethan first told her he wanted to marry me. Ethan’s in the kitchen, shirtless, pouring us coffee. He doesn’t flinch. “Mother. Celeste. To what do w
Lila The penthouse is bathed in morning sun light when the doorbell chimes loudly, interrupting the peaceful silence. Ethan’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, pouring espresso. I’m on the terrace in his white shirt, sketching the skyline on a napkin, the false-positive test already forgotten in the drawer. I've decided to move past it. “Almost ready babe,” he calls. I smile. “Take your time.” The intercom crackles. “Mr. Grant, your mother is here.” Ethan’s jaw tightens immediately. “Send her up.” I set the pencil down. “Eleanor?” He nods. “She’s here.” The elevator opens on a woman carved from ice and old money, silver hair in a flawless chignon, pearls at her throat, eyes the same storm-gray as Ethan’s but colder. Eleanor Grant. She takes in the penthouse, the napkin sketch, me in his shirt. Her lips thin. Eleanor has never liked me or she hated my guts like crazy. I can't prove it but I know she definitely celebrated the divorce when it happened. All because I wouldn't let
Lila I wake to a familiar cramp low in my belly, the kind that used to announce itself every twenty-eight days like clockwork. My mood immediately switches. The penthouse is still dark, the city lights are twinkling through the blinds in silver stripes. Ethan’s arm is heavy across my waist, his breath is warm and husky on my neck. I slip from the bed, careful not to wake him, and walk to the bathroom as quietly as possible. The marble is cold. I sit on the toilet and pull off my underwear. Its red. Red. Not much, just enough to stain, enough to confirm what my body already knows. The nausea, the missed coffee, the positive test yesterday, it was all a ghost. A mistake. My period was just late from the stress and smoke and the chaos of the past few days that felt like a lifetime. I stare at the evidence, relief and grief tangling in my chest. No baby. Not yet. I flush the bloody tissue, wash my hands, splash water on my face. The mirror shows a woman with wild hair and Et












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