His Unwanted Wife: The Secret Pregnancy

"Two lines."

Harlow Miller pressed her thumb against the plastic edge of the test strip until her nail turned white. The fluorescent lighting of the penthouse master bathroom glared off the polished marble vanity, reflecting her pale face and the faint, disbelieving curve of her lips.

Her stomach fluttered. For three years of their quiet, strictly confidential marriage, this was the moment she had waited for.

She took a slow breath. She slipped the positive‑result test strip and the printed ultrasound requisition form from her private‑clinic appointment into the zipped inner pocket of her leather bag, and walked into the walk‑in closet. From the mahogany racks, she selected a charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, matching it with the silk tie, a birthday gift she'd bought for her husband Damond Montgomery the previous year.

Her phone vibrated on the island counter. The flight tracker showed the Montgomery Group private jet touching down at Teterboro Airport in less than two hours.

Harlow pulled on her trench coat and stepped out into the hallway. A gust of damp autumn air leaked through the high penthouse corridor. Instinctively, she rested a palm flat against her lower stomach as the private elevator doors slid shut.

Down in the dim underground garage, she climbed into the back of the black Maybach.

"Teterboro Airport," she told the driver. "VIP terminal."

Rain began to smear across the tinted glass as the car crossed the river. Neon signs blurred into streaks of red and yellow. Harlow turned her engagement ring around her finger, rehearsing the words she would say. She would wait until they reached home. She would hand him the box after dinner.

Thirty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the private terminal gate. Harlow stepped out into the drizzle, declining the driver's umbrella, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the private lounge.

The air conditioning inside was set low. She shivered, walking straight to the panoramic windows that overlooked the tarmac. Outside, a Gulfstream G650 bearing the Montgomery crest taxied to a halt under the floodlights.

The mobile staircase locked into place. Harlow's pulse kicked up. She bypassed the security cordon and walked toward the arrival ramp.

The cabin door swung open. A pair of bodyguards in dark suits stepped out first, followed by Arthur Hayes, Damond's chief executive assistant.

There was no sign of the tall, broad-shouldered man she was waiting for.

Arthur froze the moment he spotted her. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he quickly smoothed it away and hurried forward to block her line of sight.

"Mrs. Montgomery," Arthur said, his voice stiff. "You shouldn't have come out in this weather."

Harlow looked past his shoulder at the empty doorway of the plane. "Where is Damond? His itinerary said he was on this flight."

"Mr. Montgomery had a sudden change of schedule," Arthur said, swallowing hard. "He transferred to a private helicopter in Boston. He went straight into the city."

A cold knot formed in Harlow's chest. Without a word, she pulled her phone from her coat and dialed Damond's private line.

The line rang four times. Just as it was about to go to voicemail, the call connected. In the background, the soft, melancholy notes of a live violin echoed over the clink of fine china.

"Damond?" Harlow's fingers tightened around the phone.

"I'm sorry, Damond can't come to the phone right now."

The voice on the other end was smooth, low, and laced with an easy, intimate amusement.

Harlow stopped breathing. The noise of the airport hangar seemed to drop away entirely.

"Who is this?" she asked, her fingernails biting deep into her palm.

"It's Katelyn," the woman replied with a soft laugh. "You must be Harlow, his assistant. Damond told me to let you know he won't be coming back to the apartment tonight. You don't need to wait up."

Katelyn Klein.

The name hit Harlow like a physical blow to the sternum. The Hollywood starlet. The woman Damond had kept in his private memories for ten years.

Harlow could not force another word past her throat. She ended the call, her stomach instantly heaving with a violent wave of nausea. She shoved past Arthur and bolted for the nearest restroom.

She gripped the edges of the white ceramic sink, dry-heaving until her eyes watered. In the mirror, her face looked hollow, stripped of color. She turned the faucet on high and splashed freezing water over her cheeks and neck.

The icy water dripped down her chin. Harlow stood upright, smoothed her damp hair, and stepped out into the corridor.

Arthur was still waiting near the exit, his posture rigid. "Ma'am, let me have the car take you-"

"I have my own driver," Harlow cut him off, her tone flat and distant. "Have a good night, Arthur."

She walked back to the Maybach through the pouring rain. During the drive back across the city, she kept her hand pressed firmly against her stomach, the plastic test strip in her purse feeling like a cruel, silent joke.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. Darkness swallowed her as she stepped inside. No lights were on. No warmth lingered in the foyer.

Harlow hung her wet coat by the door, poured a glass of room-temperature water at the kitchen island, and looked down at the pair of men's leather slippers sitting untouched by the entrance.

The silence of the empty apartment settled over her skin like ice.