Mr. Rhodes, Your Dead Fiancée Is Pregnant

Chapter 8

Word Count: 812 | Released on: Today at 16:35

dles for her soul, Stella was lying in a ham

d since the crash of

a hundred and ten million dollars-the trade winds were warm and smelled of salt. Under her

riend and master prosthetics artist, Tessa

and declared zero survivors. The Valmoran royal palace lowered its flags to half-mast for the Crown Prince'

ark sunglasses resting on the bridge of her

, boss," Tessa said, shak

817. During an unscheduled fuel stop in Bermuda, she had evacuated the crew she had paid off months in advance, switche

or Lucian Rhodes would e

well of her stomach and tapped lightly.

Rhodes has gone completely off the rails. For the last eight weeks, he's put a fifty-million-dollar

ehind her lenses. "What do

anish that first week," Tessa said.

zily. "Even if he lives to a hundred,

oat. Stella set the plate of mango aside and took a sl

aight as a new alert flashed acros

the iPad to

headquarters in New York: One Hundred Million Dollars Offered

alley estate three days ago and was now in critical condition in the ICU. Top specialists from Johns Hopkins a

hed. She sat up in the hammock, swingi

d the Hudson Valley estate, the old man had made the kitchen cook dishes without celery because he remembered her allergy, and just two months ago h

Hopkins and Mayo had given u

no. Don't even think about it. You're three months pregnant, and you just faked y

breeze whipping her lin

r of toxicology and internal medicine into the estate to treat her, she had studied

nd decisive. "I'm going back for the old man. And for a hundre

e into her hands. "He's going t

Stella said, turning toward th

Chapter End

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Mr. Rhodes, Your Dead Fiancée Is Pregnant

Guo Er Billionaires

“The same hour I got my pregnancy results, someone sent me photos of my fiancé kissing his first love on the Spanish Steps. I gave him three chances anyway. At the airport, I asked him to go public. He said there was no need. At dinner, I asked him to marry me at City Hall the next morning. He said I was acting out. Then I told him I was carrying his baby. Lucian Rhodes, the richest man in New York, the man who had proposed to me on one knee a month earlier, looked at me like a stranger. "I had a vasectomy two years ago. Watching you pretend to love me is disgusting." He slammed the door. The candles went out. I sat on the marble floor in the dark and bled. A week later I came back. Red lips, a resignation letter, a miscarriage report, and two cases of cash. My half of everything he had ever spent on me. "Three years, split fifty-fifty." On my arm was my new husband. On my way out, I told Lucian the only true thing I had ever said to him. "I never faked loving you. You called that disgusting. That's the one thing I won't forgive." Then I boarded my family's private jet. An hour later, he learned who I really was: the runaway daughter of a European banking dynasty, promised from birth to a crown prince. He learned his vasectomy had failed. He was on the airstair of his own jet, about to chase me across the Atlantic, when the news broke. My plane had gone down at sea. No survivors. The world lit candles for me. He coughed up blood on the tarmac. And on a private island in the Caribbean, with his baby growing inside me, I turned off the news and finished my mango.”