Pregnant With The Ruthless Billionaire's Secret

The wave of nausea hit her without warning.

One moment, Aubree Hamilton was staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror of Le Ciel's restroom, and the next, she was lurching into a marble stall, her stomach clenching violently. She gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, her body convulsing in a series of dry, racking heaves.

Nothing came up. There was nothing to come up.

It's the wine, she told herself, pressing a clammy hand to her forehead. The cheap bottle of Pinot Grigio she'd had last night. A hangover. That had to be it.

But the excuse felt thin, worn out. This feeling-this churning, sour sickness-had been her unwelcome companion for days.

She finally pushed herself up, her legs unsteady, and faced the mirror again. The woman staring back was a ghost. Her skin was pale, her professional smile replaced by a tight, drawn line. Dark circles bloomed beneath her eyes, stark against her pallor. She looked nothing like the top-tier executive assistant to one of Wall Street's most formidable titans.

A dizzy spell washed over her, and she gripped the edge of the marble sink to steady herself. The polished surface was cool against her trembling fingers. In the pristine reflection, the elegant restroom dissolved, replaced by an image that seared itself behind her eyelids.

A hotel suite, a month ago. Rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The scent of expensive linen and something else-something uniquely him. Beck Franco's bare chest, muscles defined in the dim light. The unrestrained fire in his deep gray eyes as he looked at her.

She shook her head, a sharp, violent motion, as if to physically dislodge the memory. A knot of regret and pure, unadulterated fear tightened in her gut.

It was a mistake. A single, catastrophic mistake.

She'd taken care of it. The thought was a desperate mantra. She had walked to the 24-hour pharmacy the next morning, her hands shaking as she paid for the little white box. She had taken the pill. There would be no consequences. There couldn't be.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, pulling her violently back to the present. A message from Paige, her friend and fellow assistant.

"He's back! Beck's jet just landed!"

Aubree's heart didn't just sink. It plummeted, a dead weight dropping through her stomach and into the floor. A month. He'd been in Europe for a whole month. A blessed, thirty-day reprieve that had just ended.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. She straightened her black blazer, smoothed down her pencil skirt. She was a professional. She needed this job. The salary, the benefits, the apartment it paid for-it was her entire life. She could not get fired.

Composed, or at least faking it, she walked out of the restroom and back to her table.

Across from her sat Julian Fletcher, the executive assistant to Alistair Rhodes-Prescott. He was a familiar face from her university days, all polished charm and ambition.

He smiled as she sat