All Chapters of Ruthless Temptation: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Emma’s POV It started with the smallest thing—a missed period. At first, I brushed it off. Stress, jet lag, long nights and even longer meetings… it could’ve been anything. But by day three, my confidence began to crack. Day five? I was panicking. I stared down at my calendar, then at the unopened pregnancy test sitting at the bottom of my Louis Vuitton tote like a ticking time bomb. I’d bought it in secret during lunch, wearing sunglasses and a scarf like I was hiding from the paparazzi. Because honestly? I felt exposed. Vulnerable. I wasn’t ready for this. We’d only just gotten married. We were still figuring out how to be partners outside of boardrooms and bedrooms. How would we handle a baby? Hell, did I even want one? My stomach twisted with guilt at the thought. I didn’t hate the idea… I just wasn’t sure. And Killian he deserved to choose. Not be b

Emma’s POV It was like a switch flipped in my brain. One moment, I was just Emma—the boss’s daughter, the wife navigating corporate gossip, the woman still trying to shake off the label of “scandalous affair turned real.” The next, I was Emma, a woman growing life, carrying something precious inside of me. Every breath felt heavier. Every decision, more significant. “Should we tell your father?” Killian asked one evening, as we laid in bed, lights off, but the silence loud between us. I stared at the ceiling, fingers laced over my stomach. “No. Not yet. Not until I feel ready.” He nodded, turning on his side to face me. “What about work? People will notice eventually.” “I know,” I sighed. “I don’t want to deal with the stares. The whispers. They’ll say it was planned. That I trapped you.” His eyes darkened. “Let them talk. We know the truth.” “But they w

Emma’s POV The irony of it all is that I fought so hard to keep Killian in my life, only to now struggle with feeling like we’re slipping away from each other. Not emotionally, no. He’s still my partner, still the one I glance toward in every meeting, still the man I trust more than anyone. But physically… intimately? Pregnancy doesn’t come with a manual for preserving desire. I stare at myself in the mirror before bed, hand instinctively resting on the growing swell of my belly. The woman staring back at me is softer. Rounder. More exhausted than she wants to admit. I’ve always been so polished—flawless makeup, heels that clicked like power with every step. Now I live in oversized shirts and struggle to stay awake past nine. Killian walks in, tie loosened, his expression tired but affectionate. “Hey,” he says softly, eyes flickering to my bare legs. “You look beautiful.” I don’t fee

Killian’s POVI never thought I’d spend a Sunday afternoon arguing about wallpaper.“Why is everything floral?” I muttered, holding up a sample that looked like a bouquet had vomited on it. “Is this baby going to be eighty?”Emma snatched it from my hand with a dramatic eye-roll. “It’s called vintage chic, Killian. Not everything has to be minimal and broody like your wardrobe.”I gave her a look. “You mean tasteful?”“You mean monochrome depression,” she shot back, smirking.God, even now—seven months pregnant, belly perfectly round beneath one of my old shirts, hair twisted in a bun that was fighting to stay up—she was stunning. And terrifying.We were standing in what used to be the guest suite, now half-painted in a soft blush tone, with boxes of baby furniture scattered across the floor. Emma had gone full Pinterest-board meets luxury interior designer, and I was just trying to keep up.“She’s not goin

Killian’s POV Nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for the wreckage a baby leaves behind. I mean that in the most beautiful and soul-obliterating way possible. Gone were the neat routines, the late-night work calls, and the quickie office rendezvous that had defined so much of my life with Emma. In their place: a tiny tyrant with lungs like a siren and a poop schedule more erratic than the stock market. I hadn’t slept more than three consecutive hours in weeks. My shirts always had some kind of stain—milk, spit-up, God knew what else. And yet… I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when I got to see Emma like this—hair messy, dark circles under her eyes, but with a softness in her gaze every time she looked at our daughter. That woman… she was made to be a mother. And yet, I could still see it—the wildness in her. The same fire that had tormented me in lect