Pregnant And Fleeing The Ruthless Billionaire

The morning light sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting a sterile stripe across the king-sized bed. Jodi Holden woke up to the familiar emptiness beside her. The sheets on Armand's side were cold, undisturbed. He was already gone.

There was never a note. There was only evidence of his departure.

Her eyes landed on the silk nightgown pooled on the floor. He'd torn the strap last night. A small, violent act in the middle of what he demanded be called tenderness.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, a ritual she hated. The screen was dark. No messages. No missed calls. Just the silent, glaring proof that she hadn't crossed his mind since he'd left his bed.

Her thumb hovered, then tapped on her email icon. The habit was ingrained, a desperate search for some acknowledgment of her existence.

A new message sat at the top of her inbox. The sender wasn't Armand. It was "Taylor Corp. Family Office."

Her breath hitched.

The subject line was a string of project codes. She typed in the password she had been forced to memorize five years ago. The email opened.

It was brutally simple. No greeting, no explanation. Just the digital signature of an electronic key and an address: a penthouse apartment on Central Park West.

A cold dread, heavy and thick, settled in her stomach. This was it. He was finally moving her out, warehousing her in a new, convenient location, tidying up his life.

Before she could fully process the thought, her phone vibrated with a text message. A bank alert from Credit Suisse.

Her private account had been credited with a seven-figure sum.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering against the marble floor. The amount was too large. It wasn't an allowance. It felt like a severance. A final payment for services rendered.

A lump of ice formed in her throat. She swallowed it down, picked up the phone, and did something she hadn't done in over a year. She dialed Armand's private line. The agreement allowed it, but his reactions had trained her not to.

The phone rang six times, each one stretching into an eternity. She could almost hear his sigh of annoyance when he finally answered. The background was filled with the rhythmic whump-whump-whump of a helicopter's rotor blades.

"Jodi."

His voice was clipped, distant. The sound of a man interrupted.

She fought to keep her own voice steady, to erase any trace of the panic clawing at her insides. "I received the email. And the transfer notification."

A pause. "And?"

"Armand, what is this?" she asked, the question coming out as a whisper.

A dry, humorless chuckle came through the line. It was the cruelest sound she had ever heard. "A reward," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "For last night. For your obedience."

The word hit her like a slap. Reward. Her blood felt like it was turning to slush in her veins. Her obedience had been