All Chapters of THE WRONG MAN'S BABY: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Damian’s POVSleep is a stranger.Even after a twelve-hour day of damage control, even after the endless board meetings and the firestorm of PR disasters, I can’t shut my mind off.The dinner with my parents replays in my head like a broken record. My father’s contempt. My mother’s daggered smiles. Ariana’s voice cutting through both of them like fire through ice.She didn’t bow. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t let them crush her.Most people wither under the weight of the Cole name. Ariana met it head-on and didn’t flinch.And I… I felt something I haven’t allowed myself in years.Pride.Not in myself. In her.That thought keeps me staring at the ceiling until dawn.By late afternoon, I’m at her apartment. Again.I tell myself it’s to check on her. To keep the scandal from getting worse. To control the narrative.But when she opens the door — hair messy, sweater hanging loose on her shoulders, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion but still burning — I know the truth.It isn’t business. I

Ariana’s POVI should’ve known Adrian wouldn’t stay quiet.He was always too vain, too reckless, too desperate for the spotlight.But I didn’t expect him to move this fast.It starts with my phone buzzing nonstop. Notifications pile on so quickly the screen lags. I groan, thinking it’s just more photos, more headlines recycling the same old scandal.Then I see his face.Adrian Cole.Smirking on a late-night talk show, his arm slung casually over the chair like he owns the world. The chyron screams beneath him in bold letters:“Adrian Cole Breaks Silence on Damian’s Scandal.”My stomach drops.I fumble with the remote, turning up the volume just in time to hear him laugh, smooth and practiced.“She’s a sweet girl,” Adrian says, leaning toward the host. “Really sweet. But things got blown way out of proportion. Ariana’s… young. Emotional. She thought there was more between us than there actually was.”The audience chuckles. The host smiles sympathetically.My chest tightens.“That’s not

Damian’s POVI should have predicted it.Vanessa never leaves without making an entrance, and she never returns without blood on her hands.But still, when I see her sweep into the ballroom — sequined gown catching the chandeliers, diamonds glinting on her throat, her smile honed to a knife’s edge, something in me tightens.She’s exactly the same.And everything is different.The gala is suffocating. Cameras flash at every turn. Politicians and CEOs trade false smiles, their eyes sharp with curiosity, waiting for me to stumble. My family insisted I attend, a desperate bid to polish the Cole name after weeks of scandal.I’d rather be anywhere else.Ariana would too. I can feel it in the way her hand trembles slightly where it rests against my arm. She’s trying to hide it — chin lifted, shoulders squared, every step deliberate — but the whispers swirl around her like smoke.“She doesn’t belong here.”“Look at her dress.”“Damian must be out of his mind.”The urge to silence them all cla

Ariana’s POVThe ballroom is a cage.Every glittering chandelier, every diamond dripping from manicured necks, every glass of champagne sparkling beneath the lights ,it all feels like a trap.I feel their eyes before I see them. Whispers follow us through the crowd, quiet enough to pretend they’re polite, loud enough to cut into me like glass.“Is that her?”“She doesn’t even look the part.”“No wonder there’s scandal. Look at her.”My spine stiffens. My palms sweat.Damian walks beside me like marble carved into human form — unflinching, untouchable. His hand presses lightly against the small of my back, not gentle but steady. Anchoring me. Warning me. Both at once.“Breathe,” he murmurs without moving his lips.I shoot him a glare. “Easy for you. They’re not whispering about you.”His jaw flexes. “They always whisper about me. Let them. They won’t touch you.”But they do. Every stare feels like a hand on my skin, every laugh like a blade against my throat.Still, I lift my chin highe

Ariana’s POVThe hiss of the espresso machine is the only thing keeping me grounded.The café hums with low chatter, soft jazz on the speakers, the smell of cinnamon rolls and strong coffee drifting through the air. My apron feels snug, my hair pulled back, my hands busy pouring lattes.For a moment, I can almost pretend. Pretend I’m just Ariana Blake, clocking in, working a shift, smiling at strangers who don’t know my name. Pretend I’m not a headline, a rumor, a scandal people whisper about on the street.Almost.Because every so often, I catch it. A glance held too long. A customer’s quick whisper. The not-so-subtle way someone lifts their phone to snap a picture.The whispers are everywhere, whether I listen or not.“Is that her?”“The one carrying his baby?”“Which brother’s, though?”I grit my teeth, plastering on the fakest smile I can muster as I hand over a cappuccino.“Thanks,” the woman says sweetly ,too sweetly before whispering to her friend as she walks off, “Poor thing.