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Bellmare Estate reminded me of Zane.
Rosewater. Honeysuckle. Old memories. Face to face with the gates that led into the Estate, those are the scents that welcomed me. The iron gates groaned open, leading to a vault of memories I had tried so hard to suppress, memories of Zane and I engaged with dreams of getting married in this same estate. Wedding dress shopping with Rosa, my ex-best friend. Rehearsing our vows, our dance. I let out a breath and stepped through the gates anyway. “Damn,” Leah, my assistant, whistled. Her baby blue eyes widened in amazement. “Some people are rich!” Rich didn’t cover it. Bellmare Estate was magnificent, a dream carved into the hills. There were white stone archways framed by climbing jasmine, a beautiful courtyard that opened into a blue, shining lake. It had not changed in the five years since I had been here. It was the venue we had once dreamed of for our wedding, me and Zane. The one I had circled in bridal magazines. The one I had whispered about in nights while wrapped up in his arms. The one I had fantasized so much about. Despite the beauty, the estate had the kind of silence that pulled at my heart. My sober thoughts must’ve been evident in my expression, for Leah side-eyed me. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Perfect,” I replied. The lie was easy. “You sure? Your portfolio is…” I glanced down to the portfolio in my left hand. I turned it around, right side up, cleverly hiding my fingers behind it. I hoped Leah won’t notice that they were trembling. “I’m a bit nervous,” I admitted. “But it’s just a wedding.” It wasn’t just a wedding. My stomach had been in knots since the offer first came. I had planned luxury weddings before, but this one felt different. The premise was anxiety inducing. The contract had arrived anonymously. High profile wedding. No in-person meetings until after the contract was signed. No names. Just an outrageous offer (triple the pay) and one stipulation: total discretion; do not ask questions. The only thing I knew was this venue, which was also where I would meet with of the client to talk things over with because I needed clarity on the contract. Bellmare Estate, the same venue that I had picked five years ago for my wedding. And now, here I was. Not as a bride. Not even part of the guest list. As a wedding planner. It had to be a coincidence, because there was no way… My heart was beating rapidly inside my cream blouse. I was reviewing the facts over again. Anonymous client. No negotiations. First meeting at the venue itself. I should have said no. But the client paid triple the normal price upfront. And I had loads of debt to clear. We crossed through the courtyard, the click of Leah’s heels echoing across the marble floor. A middle-aged, salt-and-pepper haired man in a grey suit approached us. “Ms. Ibe,” he greeted stiffly. He didn’t acknowledge Leah. “I’m Mr. Wade. I manage client interests on behalf of the groom.” I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” He didn’t take it. Leah brows shot up to her hairline. “Follow me,” Mr. Wade said, already turning on his heel. “My client is waiting for you.” “The groom is here?” I was confused. “I’d assumed he wouldn’t be here for the first meeting.” “You wouldn’t want him to be part of planning his own wedding?” I narrowed my eyes slightly at his arrogant tone. After all, the contract stated that neither the groom nor the bride would be around for the first meeting. The double doors of the main building creaked as Mr. Wade pushed them open. And there he was. Tall, really tall, too sharply dressed for someone who once loved to dance barefoot in my kitchen. A charcoal suit clung to his body. His posture was stiff. He was examining the floral samples laid out on the table, so his back was to me. The sunlight cut across his silhouette. I knew that silhouette, hell, I knew him. He didn’t even have to turn for me to know it was him. Zane Blackwood. My ex-fiancé. What was he doing here?! I felt the world tilt beneath my feet. The conference room blurred around the edges. Blood rushing behind my eyes distorted my view. I told myself it wasn’t real. Perhaps the lack of sleep had gotten to me. Perhaps I was crazy. But there he was. Zane Blackwood stood by the table, his back partially turned away from the door. He was taller than I remembered. Sharper. Colder. His hair was even darker, nearly black instead of dark brown. He turned, and I stopped breathing. Five years hadn’t softened him, hadn’t dulled him. His face was more chiseled now, mouth flatter. His suit molded perfectly to his frame. And his eyes, God, those dark eyes! His gaze swept across the room. He took in Leah first. Then Mr. Wade. Finally, he looked at me. My heart thrummed in my chest. I stared right back at him, bracing myself for a flicker of recognition. Shock. Surprise. Anger. Anything. Nothing. He looked through me like I was invisible. I stood, frozen. I couldn’t make my legs move. The last time we had seen was five years ago, when I destroyed everything. And for years, I had dreaded our reunion. Would he allow me to explain? Apologize? Did he still hate me? In my hearts of hearts, I wanted to meet with him again, but not like this. I would’ve preferred a reaction from him. A sign that this man who once loved me hadn’t blotted me out completely from his memory. This impassiveness… it hurt more than anything. Mr. Wade stepped forward. “Mr. Blackwood,” he greeted. “Glad you could make time in your schedule.” Zane gave him a short nod. “Let’s make it quick. I’m only here because the bride insisted.” The realization suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. My heart felt ripped into pieces. My mouth fell open. “You're the groom?”Zane’s hand was warm against my ankle, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over my skin as he massaged my foot like it was something fragile and priceless. I leaned back into the couch, undone by the simple act of being cared for. No billionaire arrogance nor brutal edge. Just him, kneeling in front of me, rolling up the hem of my leggings and working at the tight knots in my arches with quiet concentration. “Zane,” I whispered, half-embarrassed, half-dizzy from the tenderness of it, “you don’t have to do that.” He looked up, his smirk soft instead of sharp. “Yes, I do. You’re carrying my child. The least I can do is spoil you a little.” The word child still jolted me every time. It was like electricity under my skin, too big, too dangerous. But on his lips, it felt like home. I watched him, the way his dark lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones, the way his hair fell into his eyes as he bent over my foot. This wasn’t the same man who once left me bleeding with questions
Zane and I sat in the dim quiet of his study, the glow from the city seeping in through the tall windows. He had his sleeves rolled up, his tie abandoned on the desk, his jaw tight with that sharp, calculating look he wore when things were spiraling out of control. But I wasn’t calm like him. I was restless, pacing the room, my arms folded over my chest, my thoughts clawing at every corner of my mind. “There has to be someone,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Someone inside. Someone feeding information. Maybe one of the staff.” Zane’s gaze snapped to mine. He leaned back in the chair, his hand curling into a fist on the desk. “No,” he said flatly. “I trust my staff.” I stopped pacing. “Zane, come on. No one is above suspicion. Not when pictures of me inside your penthouse are showing up online. Someone had access. Someone who comes and goes…” “Amara,” he cut me off, his voice firm, brooking no argument. “They’ve been with me for years. I handpicked every single one of t
The glow of the phone screen felt like a knife against my eyes. My thumb scrolled without permission, the feed unfolding in slow, brutal clarity. It wasn’t pictures of me. Not directly. But the dread that settled in my chest was heavier than if it had been. The photos were of the doctor, taken as he walked out of Zane’s building, briefcase in one hand, expression calm and unsuspecting. The angles were crisp, too professional to be a casual passerby’s snap. They followed him from the elevator bank, through the lobby, to the waiting car outside. And then, like vultures circling a carcass, the press had pounced. “Who is this mystery man leaving Blackwood Tower?” “Sources confirm he’s not a lawyer or business partner but a physician.” “Exclusive: identified as Dr. Leonard Alcott, renowned gynecologist.” The word blared at me, searing itself into my skull. Gynecologist. And then came the speculations, each headline more savage than the last: “Is Sera hiding a secret pregnancy compl
The doctor’s words fell over me like a verdict. “Ms. Ibe,” he said gently, though his tone held no room for argument, “you need to rest. Not just the occasional nap or lying down when you’re dizzy. I mean strict bed rest. Do you understand?” His hand was warm against my wrist as he checked my pulse, the cuff of the blood pressure monitor still squeezing faintly around my arm. My heart thudded too quickly, too loud, as if it were trying to escape the cage of my chest. I hated how small I felt sitting there in Zane’s oversized T-shirt, my hair tangled from sleep and nausea churning like sea waves in my stomach. I hated feeling weak, fragile. I wasn’t supposed to be this woman, not after everything I had endured. But my body had betrayed me, and now even the doctor looked at me as if I might break apart in front of him. “No stress,” he continued firmly, adjusting his glasses. “No unnecessary worries. And above all, no overexertion. Stress is not just unhelpful. It is dangerous for bo
The phone hadn’t stopped ringing all morning. I sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket tight around me, listening to Zane’s voice rise and fall as he paced the length of the penthouse, his phone pressed to his ear. His tie was loose, his hair a mess, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. And then I heard Catherine hrieking so loud I heard it even though he wasn’t on speaker. “You ungrateful bastard!” she was screaming. “You dare destroy me like this? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to the family name?” Zane pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes flashing. “What I’ve done? Catherine, you’re the one parading lies in front of the world. Don’t you dare talk to me about family names when you sold yours for power decades ago.” I flinched at the venom in her tone, a sound like nails clawing glass. “You think this little stunt will make you king? You’ve embarrassed us. You’ve embarrassed me. You’ve ruined any chance for the Blackwood legacy to continue without shame. And
The email sat open in front of me, glowing like a live bomb. I’d read it once, twice, three times, the words searing themselves into my brain until I almost couldn’t breathe. DNA paternity results: Subject A (infant) is 99.98% match with Subject B (Julian Moreau). No genetic match with Subject C (Zane Blackwood). I let out an ugly, strangled laugh. As if I hadn’t already known. As if I hadn’t suspected all along. Sera’s secrets had always dripped with the sour scent of desperation. She’d clung to Zane like a drowning woman, but her nights were spent tangled up with Julian. I had seen the hunger in her eyes when Julian’s name came up, the subtle curl of her mouth. Still, the cold certainty of proof sank into my bones like ice water. This was it. No more speculation. No more rumors. This baby, Catherine’s golden heir, the child the press was already painting as the future of Blackwood bloodlines… wasn’t Zane’s. It was Julian’s. I shut the laptop with a snap and pressed my palms to







