Chapter 1

The pregnancy test showed two lines. I pressed my hand against my stomach and smiled for the first time in months.

But when I walked into the living room to tell my husband, I found him on one knee—sliding a diamond ring onto another woman's finger.

Roxanne was sitting on my couch, in my house, wearing my husband's shirt. And Damien—my husband of two years—was proposing to her like I didn't exist.

"Damien," I said quietly.

He didn't even flinch. He just glanced over his shoulder and said, "Aurelia, not now. Can't you see I'm busy?"

Roxanne lifted her hand, admiring the ring. Then she looked at me with a smile so sweet it made my skin crawl.

"Don't be upset, Aurelia. You always knew this was coming. You were just the contract wife. I'm the one he actually loves."

She was right about one thing. I did know.

Two years ago, Damien Ashford needed a wife to access his family trust. His grandfather's will was clear: no marriage, no inheritance. But Damien's heart already belonged to Roxanne—who was married to someone else at the time.

So, he found me. A nobody. An orphan from a shelter, or so he thought.

The contract was simple. Play the wife for two years. Don't cause trouble. When it's done, walk away with $200,000 and never look back.

I signed it because I needed the money for my younger brother's surgery. I told myself I wouldn't catch feelings.

I lied.

Somewhere between the late-night conversations and the way he held me during thunderstorms, I fell for him. And when he came to my bed—not because of obligation, but because he wanted to—I believed, foolishly, that maybe he was falling for me too.

Now I stood in the living room, pregnant with his children, watching him give another woman everything I had quietly hoped might one day be mine.

"The contract ends in three months," Damien said without looking at me. "Roxanne's divorced now. She'll be moving in this week. I expect you to be respectful."

My fingers curled around the pregnancy test in my pocket.

I didn't tell him.

Some news doesn't deserve to be shared with someone who wouldn't care.

That night, I locked my bedroom door and sat on the floor, staring at the test. Two lines. Two lives growing inside me.

I pulled out the phone I kept hidden in my drawer—the one no one knew about—and dialed a number I hadn't called in two years.

It rang once. A deep, steady voice answered immediately, as though he'd been waiting.

"Aurelia."

"Uncle Edmond," I whispered. "I want to come home."

There was a pause. Then: "It's about time. I'll send someone tomorrow."

I closed my eyes.

Three more months? No. I wasn't going to last three more days.