All Chapters of Winning Back My Pregnant Wife: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

JulianJulianFriday night in Manhattan usually means people are either carving out time for their families or blowing off steam over a couple of heavy drinks with friends. Me? I’m buried alive in my office at the firm, staring down a blinding spreadsheet, trying to compile and sort through the list of logistics workers who have been paid and the ones who haven’t, alongside a stack of new applications that just hit my desk.The silence in the room is suffocating, but it matches the emptiness waiting for me at home. I have the entire house to myself this weekend. Genevieve is off on another one of her sudden business trips. Honestly, it’s only a matter of time before she and I finally call the breaks on whatever the hell it is we’re still doing, but she doesn't seem to want to let me go just yet. So, I do what I always do when the walls start closing in: I work. I work way later than usual, tracking rows of numbers until well after eight o’clock, just waiting for the city to quiet down

Genevieve I wake from a nightmare, the sound of my own anguished cry fading away into the quiet corners of the house as I force my eyes open. Sunlight is already streaming through the gaps in the heavy curtains. Sitting up quickly in bed, I reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time. It’s nearly nine in the morning.I stretch my aching limbs, use the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, and finally walk out of the master bedroom. As I step into the quiet hallway, I notice the light is still burning bright under the door of Julian’s home office. I can’t help but let out a soft smile. He knows exactly how much I hate wasting electricity, how much I still pinch pennies out of habit—a stubborn vestige of my years spent living paycheck to paycheck before our lives changed. Sometimes, I genuinely think he leaves the lights on just to needle me, a petty little inside joke between the two of us.I head downstairs to the kitchen, expecting the usual routine. But when I r

Christian“He’s not filing until the day before your anniversary,” I say, tapping the legal document on the screen. “November the second. That’s, what, a week from tomorrow?”Genevieve nods quickly, aggressively chewing on a manicured nail.“So the real question is: What do we do right now?”“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do,” she says, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. “I’d like to break his fucking neck.”I pause, letting the silence stretch between us. I look at her closely. “And what if that actually happened?”Genevieve blinks, her entire expression shifting, the manic energy freezing solid.“You’ve always said you care about him,” I press softly, testing the waters. “How much do you actually care about him, Gen?”Genevieve walks slowly over to the window, her back to me as she looks out over the gray, shadowed alleyway below. My guess is she’s spent the last forty-five minutes of her drive over here asking herself that exact same question.“If he dies suddenly,”

Sarah Marcus’s Parents are seated at a secluded round table in the back corner of the restaurant, bathed in the soft, amber glow of a low-hanging chandelier. Even from a distance, the family resemblance is striking. Arthur Kane possesses the same sharp, aristocratic jawline as Marcus, though his hair is dusted with silver, and his posture carries the heavy, unyielding gravity of a man who has commanded boardrooms for forty years. Beside him sits Eleanor Kane, a woman who looks as though she were sculpted from fine porcelain. Her pearls are flawless, her tailored cream blazer immaculate, and her posture perfectly rigid. As we approach, Arthur looks up first. A sharp, knowing smile cuts across his face. Eleanor’s gaze follows, her eyes instantly dropping to our intertwined hands before sweeping up to take in my outfit, my hair, and my expression. My stomach does a nervous little flip. *Here we go.* “Marcus,” Arthur says, rising to his feet with a powerful presence that mirrors hi

Christian Gavin is quiet, his eyes closed tightly as he sits on the weathered park bench in Wrightwood Park. His hands are pressed flat together in front of his lips, almost as if he’s lost in deep, silent prayer.We’ve been going over this exact same puzzle for the last three hours. We started over a tense lunch, moved on to a few heavy beers, and now we’re just walking the winding paths of the park near his high-end condo in Lincoln Park. To get his help, I had to completely violate our sacred vow never to share real names—that ironclad wall we built years ago to keep our individual scams entirely separate from each other. Until this afternoon, he’d only ever known Genevieve as “Number Seven” and Julian as “Number Seven’s husband.”But running through all my options with this nightmare of a new development, it was just too damn hard to keep using clinical titles. Especially with a third player—Julian’s relentless ex-wife—crashing into the equation.So now, Gavin knows the whole tru