Not Just An Incubator: The Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge

Ten minutes. That was how close I was to handing my fiancé the keys to a three-hundred-million-dollar empire built on my code.

But when I walked into the office, his mistress was sitting in my chair, spinning the pen I bought him for our anniversary.

Caleb didn't even look up. He told me the investors wanted stability, not a pregnant woman. He called our unborn child a "liability" and ordered security to escort me out of the building I paid for.

I went home to pack, only to find a burner phone hidden in the closet. The texts were brutal. He called me an "incubator." He said once the deal was signed, he’d take the baby and dump the "nerd."

When he caught me with the phone, he didn't apologize. He dragged me by my hair and threw me into the soundproof panic room to keep me quiet until the deal closed.

"Caleb, please! I'm bleeding!"

I pounded on the steel door until my hands were raw. But he just locked it and went to eat pizza with his mistress.

Alone in the dark, on the freezing concrete, I felt the life inside me slip away. He hadn't just stolen my company; he had killed my child.

He thought I was broken. He thought I was just "the help." But he forgot one thing: I built the security system he was trying to sell.

Three days later, I rolled my wheelchair into his victory press conference, flanked by his biggest rival.

"Do you trust your new code, Caleb?"

"Because I wrote the backdoor. And I just opened it."

Chapter 1

Brooke Myers POV

Ten minutes.

That was how close I was to handing my fiancé the keys to the city.

Then I saw it.

My own face staring up from the trash can, defaced with a thick black marker.

The ink was still wet.

That photo was the headshot for the press release I had written myself. It was supposed to validate the Roy Family's legitimacy to the Commission-a deal worth three hundred million dollars in clean, laundered money. A deal built on my code. My sleepless nights. My very soul.

Now, it was just garbage.

I stood in the hallway of the compound I had paid for, my hand hovering over my stomach. The cramping had started an hour ago, a dull ache I had tried to ignore because Caleb needed this day to be perfect. But now, the ache was sharpening into a serrated blade.

I pushed open the double oak doors to the main office.

The air inside smelled of expensive leather and cheap perfume.

Caleb wasn't sitting behind the mahogany desk. Krystal was.

She was wearing my headset. She was spinning a pen between her fingers-a Montblanc I had given Caleb for our fifth anniversary.

"You can't be in here," Krystal said. She didn't bother to look up. Her voice was light, airy, and completely out of place in a room where death sentences were signed.