All Chapters of One Night Callboy: Knocked Up by the Ruthless Billionaire : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

SCARLETTI stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back.The soft cream dress hugged my waist, the neckline modest but elegant, the kind my mother-in-law always approved of. My hair was swept into a neat low bun, makeup light and flawless. I looked like the perfect daughter-in-law—poised, grateful, glowing.The glow was fake.Just like the pregnancy Ethan announced at dinner that night.I pressed a hand to my stomach. Flat. Empty. No life growing inside me. No miracle. Just a lie he'd told to shut his parents up, to save his pride, to keep the family legacy intact. And now I had to carry it. Smile through it. Pretend it was real.My chest tightened. Not with hope. With something colder. Resentment. Exhaustion. The kind of quiet rage that settles deep and stays.I took one last breath, smoothed the dress one last time, and walked downstairs.Ryder was still asleep on the living room sofa.The blanket had slipped low, covering only his h

SCARLETT "Say stop and I stop." Ethan's words hung between us—low, almost gentle—but his body stayed heavy on top of mine, hips pressing me into the mattress, cock still teased in front of my entrance moments ago. His breath was hot against my neck. I stared up at the ceiling for one frozen second. Then something inside me snapped. I shoved—hard—with every ounce of strength I had left. He wasn't expecting it. Ethan lost balance, rolled off me, and landed on the mattress beside me with a grunt. The sudden emptiness made me gasp, but I didn't wait. I scrambled off the bed, legs shaking, nightgown twisted around my thighs. "I hate you," I whispered. The words came out small, cracked, but they carried everything I had been swallowing for years. I ran. Bare feet slapped against the cold hardwood. Didn't stop until I reached the guest room at the end of the hall—the one I'd claimed after the slap, the one that still smelled faintly of fresh linen and nothing of hi

SCARLETTEthan kissed my forehead before he left the bed—like it was a normal night kiss, like nothing happened between us before.His lips were soft, almost tender. Then he rolled away, pulled on my favorite robe (the black silk one I used to love seeing him wear), and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.I stayed on my back, staring at the ceiling, tears slipping silently into my hair. My body still ached from him—thighs sore, core tender, skin marked in places I didn’t want to look at. I felt filthy. Used. Hollow.He was still my husband.Legally.On paper.But every time he touched me now it felt like theft.I dragged the blanket over my naked body, pulling it up to my chin. The fabric smelled faintly of his cologne and my shame. I curled onto my side, knees to chest, and let the tears fall harder.Helpless.That was the word that kept echoing in my head.Helpless.No money of my own. No job. No family who could stand against him. No way out that didn’t end with my

SCARLETTThe front door closed with that soft, final click that always sounded louder than it should.Ethan was already in the living room, sitting in the low armchair with his phone in one hand, glasses low on his nose. The lamp beside him threw long shadows across his face, making him look carved from stone. He looked up slowly when he heard my heels on the marble, removed the glasses with deliberate care, folded them, and set them aside on the side table.“Where have you been so late?” His voice was quiet, measured, the kind of calm that always made my stomach knot.I paused in the doorway, coat still on, keys biting into my palm.“Lost track of time,” I said. “I was at the hospital. With Mom.”He nodded once, like the answer was acceptable but not interesting.I turned toward the hallway that led to the guest room—my sanctuary, the only space in this house that still felt a little like mine.“Scarlett.”His voice stopped me cold.I didn’t turn around.“From tonight on, you sleep

SCARLETTTwo days after the event, my body still refused to forgive me.Every morning started the same: a wave of nausea that rolled through me like slow poison, a spinning head that made the room tilt even when I lay perfectly still, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could touch. I told myself it was stress. The wine. The fight with Ethan. I told myself a lot of things.None of them were true.I couldn’t ignore it anymore.I went to the hospital alone.No driver. No Ethan. No one to hold my hand or ask questions. Just me in a plain sweater and jeans, hair pulled back, trying to look like someone who wasn’t falling apart at the seams.The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and old magazines. I sat with my hands clasped tight in my lap, staring at the linoleum floor until my name was called.The doctor was kind—older woman with gentle eyes and a soft voice. She asked questions. I answered in short sentences. She took blood. Did an ultrasound. I lay on the tab