The Billionaire's Asset: Carrying His Heir

Aurora stared at the white plastic stick in her hand. The bathroom of the Pierre Hotel was silent, save for the distant hum of the ventilation system and the blood rushing in her ears.

Two lines.

Pink. Unmistakable. Damning.

Her breath hitched, catching in her throat like a jagged stone. She gripped the edge of the marble sink, her knuckles turning white. She did the math in her head, counting backward. Four weeks. The dates didn't line up with the casual, sterile dates her family had arranged. They lined up with Davos. They lined up with a blizzard, a fireplace, and a man whose name she had tried to scrub from her memory with scalding showers.

The heavy oak door creaked open.

Aurora jumped. She fumbled with the test, wrapping it frantically in a paper towel. There was nowhere to hide it. Her clutch was too small, too exposed. With trembling fingers, she shoved it deep into the sanitary disposal bin under the sink, burying it beneath other discarded items.

Kendall Hansen walked in. Her heels clicked against the tile, a sharp, rhythmic staccato. She paused at the mirror, smoothing her already perfect blonde hair, catching Aurora's reflection with a gaze that was too sharp, too knowing. Kendall wasn't her sister, not by blood or bond. She was the daughter of the Senator her mother had married, a polished viper in the high-stakes ecosystem of New York society.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Aurora," Kendall said. Her voice was light, sweet, and entirely fake.

"Just nerves," Aurora managed to say. Her voice sounded thin. "Big night."

Kendall turned, her silk dress rustling. She stepped closer, invading Aurora's personal space. Her eyes, however, weren't on Aurora's face. They flicked down to the small, silver sanitary bin for a fraction of a second before meeting Aurora's again. A tiny, triumphant smile played on her lips. "Don't worry. It's going to be a night to remember."

Kendall turned and walked out, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and dread in her wake.

Aurora splashed cold water on her face. She dabbed it dry, reapplied her lipstick with a trembling hand, and forced her lungs to expand. She had to survive the next hour. That was all.

She walked back into the ballroom. The chandeliers were blinding. Hundreds of people-New York's elite-were a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns.

On the stage, Preston Sterling was speaking into a microphone. He looked the part of the perfect business heir: handsome, polished, rich. He was talking about synergy. About the merger of the Sterling and Hansen families. Aurora stood near the edge of the room, a decorative piece of the Hansen contingent, required to be present but not central.

Her assigned seat had been moved. She found her name card placed at a table in the back, next to the catering entrance-a clear, cold signal of her irrelevance. A social execution.

Then Kendall walked onto the stage.

She took the microphone from the