Too Late, Mr. Potts: You Lost Us Forever

As a kept woman-a trophy wife-I had reached the height every woman supposedly desired: married to a billionaire and pregnant with his child.

That was until his first love returned. My husband brought her child home and ordered me to get an abortion the next morning.

"A newborn will take your attention away and ruin Jaxon's adjustment," he said in a businesslike tone, casually handing me a twenty-million-dollar compensation agreement and the deed to a Manhattan penthouse. He expected me to quietly dispose of my own flesh and blood.

I glanced down at the appointment slip, then looked up and said, "Okay." He froze, waiting for me to cry, to beg. I refused. The day I married into the Potts family, I understood the rule: a trophy wife only cares about money, not love. He makes an offer, I comply. Tears aren't in the contract.

Soon after, he paraded his first love around our home, playing the flawless family man while treating me like a disposable ghost. He truly believed I was just a spineless, decorative wife who would willingly butcher her own child to satisfy his twisted savior complex.

I watched him reserve all his tenderness for that mother and son, not even bothering to pretend anymore. I didn't want to stay in this house for another second.

I handed him a forged abortion record, took the money, signed the divorce papers, and flew to Boston to attend Harvard Law School and gave birth to my daughter there alone. He thought he was dealing with a nuisance, completely unaware that from the abortion slip to the divorce agreement, every single step was a trap I had set for him.

Chapter 1

Jillian POV

When I was four months pregnant, my husband brought home his first love's child and handed me an abortion appointment slip.

"Tomorrow morning at nine," he said, then crouched back down to tie the three-year-old boy's shoelaces. When he stood up, the tenderness on his face instantly switched to a businesslike coldness. "A newborn will take your attention away and ruin Jaxon's adjustment."

Jaxon sat nearby, eating a mandarin orange my husband had peeled for him. In every photograph of Aurora Nelson that Brendan kept locked in his study drawer, the woman had those exact same dark eyes and round face.

I looked down at the slip, then up at him. "Okay," I said.

Brendan froze. The entire speech he had prepared died in his throat. He stared at my face for two seconds. He was waiting for me to cry.

I didn't cry. I pressed my nails into my palms, the sharp pain forcing me into absolute clarity.

Since the day I married into the Potts family, I had set a rule for myself: in the trophy wife business, you only care about money, not matters of the heart. Brendan had bought two years of my docile elegance; I took the money and did the job. We were even.

Knowing Brendan, he had even prepared lines to comfort me-issue the order first, then dispense a little tenderness so I'd comply with tearful gratitude.

"Good," he finally said, his tone carrying a poorly concealed hint of surprise. "You're being very reasonable, Jillian. I will compensate you for this sacrifice."

His shoulders visibly relaxed when he said "compensate"-anything that could be settled with money wasn't a real problem.

The next morning, I took a cab to a clinic across town and had an acquaintance forge a discharge record with an official stamp: Surgical termination of pregnancy completed. I sat in the waiting room for two hours, reading international tax law summaries on my phone.

Then, I returned to the penthouse and handed the document to Brendan. He casually tossed it into the shredder.

"The property transfer deed for the Manhattan penthouse, along with twenty million dollars, has already been wired to your account." He pushed two documents toward me, his tone strictly transactional, then paused. "Consider it your compensation for cooperating."

He needed me to show some emotion. Gratitude, sorrow, anger, anything. He needed confirmation that this transaction was "settled."

I picked up the pen and signed my name without hesitation. "Thank you, Brendan."

Brendan stared at my steady, unwavering hands and frowned slightly. He had been waiting for me to be devastated so he could play the benevolent benefactor comforting his wounded wife.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

That evening, I moved into the guest room. Brendan stepped out of his study and blocked my path.

"What are you doing?"

"Jaxon sleeps right across from the master bedroom. I don't want to disturb his adjustment."

He clenched his jaw, his gaze dropping to my flat shoes. "Aurora called earlier. She wanted to know if you'd mind Jaxon living here permanently."

"If I minded, would you send him back to her?"

Brendan stiffened. After a long pause, he spoke. "No. I won't send him away."

"Jillian, Aurora is different from you," he added, his voice dropping low. "She never puts me in a difficult position."

"Of course she doesn't," I said. "Because whatever she wants, you've already taken care of it for her. And what I want-you can't afford to give."

Brendan's expression changed. He opened his mouth, but all he managed to squeeze out was, "So my thoughts just don't matter to you?"

"When have my thoughts ever mattered?" I asked in return. "Excuse me."

His hand slipped from the doorframe, and his voice rose. "The real estate lawyers will finish the deed registration tomorrow morning. I've had it expedited."

"I appreciate your efficiency." I closed the door and locked it from the inside.

The next morning, the lawyers arrived with the paperwork. As I was signing the final document, they pulled out an extra one. "Mr. Potts has added blue-chip bonds and a jewelry ownership confirmation. Please review."

I glanced at the valuation and looked up at Brendan. He put down his phone and leaned forward.

"This should be enough to keep you quiet for a while, right?" A self-satisfied, generous smile hung on his lips.

"Please thank Mr. Potts for me," I said to the lawyer, flipping to the signature page and signing my name. The scratch of the pen against the paper was soft, but Brendan's smile froze for a second.

Just as the lawyer closed the folder, Brendan led Jaxon into the room. "I'm taking Jaxon to the club for lunch. You should come with us. Getting some fresh air will be good for your physical recovery."

He said "physical recovery" as naturally as if he were checking on a patient who had just had their appendix removed.

"No, thank you. I have a follow-up appointment at the OB-GYN at eleven."

The term "OB-GYN" pricked him. His shoulders stiffened, a flash of guilt crossing his eyes.

"I'll have the driver take you in the Maybach," he said hurriedly.

"Alright." Without another glance, I brushed past him and Jaxon.

An hour later, at an independent prenatal clinic in Queens. "The fetus is perfectly healthy. The heartbeat is strong, and all developmental markers for sixteen weeks are completely normal," the doctor said with a smile.

I slipped the ultrasound printout into the hidden compartment of my handbag.

On the ride back, I texted Brendan: Check-up went smoothly. Everything is normal.

He replied instantly: That's good. What do you want for dinner? I'll have the kitchen prepare it.

I didn't reply. I switched to my encrypted contacts and messaged Jackie Wiggins: List the penthouse off-market this week, cash buyers only. Also, find me the best divorce lawyer near Boston's law schools. I want the team assembled before I move.

Two seconds later, Jackie replied with one word: Done.

He thought he was dealing with a nuisance. Little did he know, I was dealing with him.