Incubator No More: The Billionaire's Secret Heir

Florence Boone sat on the velvet sofa in the VIP waiting room, her fingers twisting the leather strap of her Lafayette 148 bag until the circulation cut off. Her knuckles were white, a stark contrast to the deep cognac leather.

The air in the clinic smelled of expensive lavender and sanitized hope. It was a smell designed to mask the desperation that usually permeated fertility clinics, but today, Florence didn't feel desperate.

She felt electric.

Nurse Joy pushed open the heavy oak door. Her smile was practiced, professional, yet it reached her eyes today.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Livingston," Joy said, her voice light and airy. "Implantation was successful."

Florence felt her heart skip a beat, a physical thud against her ribs. The air left her lungs in a rush. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath.

Joy handed her the report. The paper was crisp, heavy. Florence took it, her hands trembling. It felt like holding a bomb and a diamond at the same time.

She looked at the numbers, the medical jargon, but all she saw was a future. A child. A reason to stay in this marriage. A reason to make it work with Garnett.

She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Garnett's contact. She wanted to call him. She wanted to hear his voice change from its usual indifference to excitement.

But then she stopped.

No, she thought. I want to see his face.

"Is Garnett still in the car?" Florence asked, standing up. Her legs felt unsteady, like she was walking on a boat.

Joy's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She glanced toward the hallway. "Mr. Livingston... he went to the VIP Lounge to take a call. Business, I assume."

Florence nodded, clutching the report to her chest. "Thank you, Joy."

She walked out of the waiting room. The carpet in the hallway was thick, swallowing the sound of her heels. It was quiet. Too quiet.

She approached the VIP Lounge at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, just a sliver of darkness cutting through the light of the hallway.

She raised her hand to knock. She was smiling.

"You're terrible, darling."

The voice stopped Florence's hand in mid-air. It was a laugh she knew. Low, throaty, amused.

Alison Yates.

Florence froze. Her blood turned to slush in her veins.

"Stop it, Alison," Garnett's voice replied. It wasn't his business voice. It was soft. Indulgent. A tone he hadn't used with Florence in years.

Florence lowered her hand. She stepped closer to the gap in the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Alison complained. There was the sound of fabric rustling. "I hate thinking about her carrying our baby. It's gross."

Florence felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

"Don't worry," Garnett said. He chuckled, a cold, dismissive sound. "She's just an