Lahat ng Kabanata ng THE WRONG MAN'S BABY: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

Ariana’s POVI used to think weddings were supposed to be magical, flowers, laughter, soft music, promises whispered under chandeliers.Now, all I feel is the weight of every eye on me.Every day, another fitting. Another headline. Another reminder that this isn’t the fairytale little girls dream of, it’s a performance.A contract disguised as love.Damian says it’s for protection. That marrying me will end the speculation, shield the baby, silence the sharks that keep circling.Maybe he’s right.But lately, I can’t tell where his devotion ends and duty begins.---The cake tasting is supposed to be the one peaceful part of all this, very simple, harmless,and sweet.Instead, I’m sitting in a hotel ballroom surrounded by endless tiers of fondant and sugar flowers, pretending to care about flavor when all I want to do is disappear.The wedding planner drones on about textures and themes. “This one’s vanilla bean with passionfruit filling. Light, elegant, timeless.”“Mm,” I manage, forc

Ariana’s POVThe morning of the wedding starts with silence.No chaos. No calls. No reporters screaming at the gate. Just the soft crash of waves against the cliffs, the kind of calm that feels almost wrong.I stare at my reflection in the mirror, unsure who’s looking back.The dress fits perfectly — too perfectly. White silk, long sleeves, clean lines. No fairytale fluff, no lace or glitter. My heavy bump pushing out my dress. Damian insisted it should look “timeless.”But I don’t feel timeless. I feel trapped in a story I didn’t write.This wedding was supposed to be a deal, an end to gossip, a protection for the baby, a way to make the world stop watching.A contract, not a confession.So why does my chest ache like it’s something more?Someone knocks. “Ariana?”It’s Elise, my maid of honor or rather, the only person I could stand having in the room. She peeks in, eyes soft. “You okay?”“I don’t know,” I whisper.She smiles faintly. “You look beautiful. Terrified, but beautiful.”“

Damian’s POVI’ve never been good at surprises.I’m the kind of man who plans every move ten steps ahead, checks every exit, every risk, every angle.But today, I just… didn’t.Today, I wanted her to smile without overthinking why.Ariana looks suspicious before we even leave the house.Her arms are crossed, her suitcase small enough to insult me.“Where are we going again?” she asks.“It’s a surprise,” I tell her, opening the car door.She squints at me. “You know I hate surprises.”“I know you say that.”“Which means?”“It means I’m hoping you’re lying.”She glares but climbs in anyway, muttering under her breath about control issues and kidnappings.I hide a smile.It’s ridiculous how easily she gets under my skin.The drive takes hours — long, winding roads cutting through mountains and green fields.For the first time in weeks, I don’t answer any calls.No business meetings, no lawyers, no Adrian.Just her.She presses her forehead to the window, watching sunlight flicker across

Damian’s POVI never thought I’d care about wallpaper.Or tiny furniture. Or stuffed animals.But this morning, I’ve spent three hours arguing with an interior designer about shades of pastel yellow, and apparently, it’s a big deal.Ariana’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through catalogues. She looks exhausted, but there’s a glow about her — not just from the pregnancy, but something lighter, softer.She glances up, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You realize the baby won’t care about the color of the walls, right?”“Maybe not now,” I say, crossing my arms, “but first impressions matter.”She laughs. “For a newborn?”“Yes.”“You’re impossible.”“Persistent,” I correct.She rolls her eyes. “You’re nesting.”I arch a brow. “That’s a thing?”“For mothers, yes. But apparently, you’ve caught it.”I glance around at the chaos of paint swatches, miniature cribs, and boxes labeled “baby essentials.” Maybe she’s right.Maybe I am nesting.----It started a week ago, a simple i

Damian’s POV Bad news doesn’t knock.It breaks the door down.It’s past midnight when my phone lights up on the nightstand — Hale.The name alone sets something tight in my chest.HALE: You need to see this. Now.My pulse spikes. I glance at Ariana’s sleeping form beside me. She’s curled against the pillow, one hand resting on her belly — peaceful, unaware.I slip out of bed quietly and head for the study. The storm outside beats against the windows as I boot up the laptop and open the secure folder Hale sent.Files load one by one, photos, documents, numbers that don’t make sense until they do.And when they do, my blood runs cold.Adrian’s face appears in grainy surveillance footage, meeting men I recognize for all the wrong reasons. Russian syndicates. Gambling circles. Debt books that read like death sentences.Then I see the name that makes me whisper a curse under my breath.Marco DeLuca.The air leaves my lungs.I answer Hale’s incoming call before the second ring.He doesn’t