The Billionaire's Secret Bump-Chapter 38: I am pregnant

Fiona stared at her plate.

The risotto had gone cold, the arborio rice congealing around the edges, flecks of asparagus and parmesan now looking more like regret than comfort. The candle between them flickered, throwing soft gold across the table, but it couldn’t reach the shadows under her eyes or the ones pooling inside her chest.

Tears slipped free again slow at first, then faster, carving silent tracks down her cheeks. She wiped them quickly with the back of her hand, embarrassed, angry at herself for falling apart in front of someone who hadn’t seen her in years.

Caleb watched her.

He didn’t speak right away.

He just watched quiet, steady, the way he used to watch her in senior year when she’d read her poems out loud in English Lit and pretended she didn’t notice him staring. Back then he’d thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Now... now she looked like a woman who’d been carrying the weight of the world for too long, and it was finally crushing her.

"I’m pregnant," she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and fragile. "And the father... he’s my boss. And he’s engaged to someone else. And last night he showed up at my door and... we... and then he asked me to be his lover. Like I’m something he can keep on the side while he marries for money."

The words hung between them like smoke.

Caleb felt something deep inside his chest crack open.

He had never stopped thinking about her not completely. Not even after prom, not even after college, not even after he moved away and built a life that looked good on paper. Fiona Flare had always been the quiet what-if in the back of his mind. The girl who said no with kindness instead of cruelty. The girl who made him want to be better.

And now she was sitting across from him beautiful, broken, pregnant, crying because the man she loved had reduced her to a secret.

Caleb’s heart ached.

Deep inside, it ached in a way he hadn’t felt since he was eighteen and she’d chosen Marcus over him. Only this time it wasn’t jealousy. It was sorrow. Pure, helpless sorrow for the girl he’d once loved from afar, who was now drowning in pain he couldn’t fix.

He reached across the table slowly—gave her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

He took her hand.

Her fingers were cold. Trembling.

He squeezed gently.

"I’m so sorry, Fi," he said, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say. "You don’t deserve any of this. None of it."

Fiona’s tears fell harder.

She looked down at their joined hands.

"I feel so stupid," she whispered. "I opened the door. I let him in. I let him... I let him make me feel like I was everything for one night. And then he asked me to wait. To be his lover. Like I’m a consolation prize he’ll pick up after he’s done with the real thing."

Caleb’s thumb brushed over her knuckles—slow, careful.

"You’re not stupid," he said. "You’re human. You loved him. You still do. And love makes us do things we’d never do otherwise. It doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you brave."

Fiona shook her head.

"I’m not brave. I’m terrified. I’m pregnant, Caleb. Alone. Working for a man who’s about to marry someone else. And I still—" Her voice broke. "I still love him. Even after everything. Even after he called me a worker. Even after he asked me to be his secret. I still love him. And I hate myself for it."

Caleb felt that ache in his chest deepen.

He wanted to reach across the table and pull her into his arms. Wanted to tell her she deserved someone who would never ask her to hide. Wanted to tell her she deserved someone who would choose her first—always.

But he didn’t.

Because right now she didn’t need another man trying to claim her.

She needed someone to listen.

So he listened.

He kept holding her hand.

He let her cry.

He let her talk—halting, broken sentences about the night in Eclipse, about the elevator, about the boutique, about the way Martin’s voice had cracked when he said he loved her, about the way it hadn’t mattered because the next words out of his mouth had broken her all over again.

When she finally ran out of words, she just sat there—exhausted, empty, hand still in his.

Caleb spoke quietly.

"You’re not alone in this, Fi. Not anymore. I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

Fiona looked up at him—eyes swollen, lashes wet.

"You don’t have to do this."

"I know," he said. "I want to."

She searched his face.

"Why?"

"Because I never stopped caring," he said simply. "Not really. And because you deserve someone in your corner. Even if it’s just a friend from high school who still folds notes into stars."

Fiona’s laugh was small and watery.

"You still do that?"

"Only for special people."

She looked down at their hands again.

"I don’t know what I’m going to do," she whispered. "I can’t keep working there. Not with him engaged. Not with his fiancée in the building. Not with... all of it. But I can’t quit yet. The event is in two months. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t walk away before it’s finished."

Caleb nodded.

"Then don’t. Stay. Finish it. Show them what you’re capable of. And when it’s over... you walk away on your terms. With your head high. With your baby. With whatever future you want."

Fiona’s eyes filled again.

"I’m scared."

"I know," he said. "But you’re not alone anymore."

He squeezed her hand once more.

Then let go.

"Eat your risotto," he said gently. "It’s probably cold, but cold risotto is still better than no risotto."

Fiona laughed—real this time, soft and surprised.

She picked up her fork.

Took a bite.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while.

Then Caleb spoke again—casual, light.

"So... boy or girl?"

Fiona paused.

"I don’t know yet. I haven’t had the scan."

He smiled.

"Want me to guess?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Go for it."

"Girl," he said without hesitation. "With your eyes. And your stubborn streak. She’s going to be trouble."

Fiona’s smile was small but real.

"I hope so."

They finished their food.

Caleb paid the bill before she could protest.

When they stepped outside, the rain had eased to a soft mist.

He walked her to the bus stop.

Waited with her.

When the bus arrived, he hugged her—quick, warm, careful.

"Call me," he said. "Day or night. I mean it."

Fiona nodded.

"Thank you, Caleb."

He watched her climb on.

Watched the bus pull away.

Then he stood there in the mist for a long time.

Heart aching.

For the girl he’d loved in high school.

Marcus leaned against the marble island in his penthouse kitchen, shirt unbuttoned to the third button, sleeves rolled up, watching Clara pace in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glittered behind her like a toy set made of diamonds and steel. She was still wearing the same burgundy silk dress from the mall yesterday—wrinkled now, one strap slipping off her shoulder—but she moved with the same predatory grace she always had when she was scheming.

"My uncle just secured me a job at Voss," she said, voice bright with triumph. She stopped pacing, turned to face him, eyes glittering. "Senior marketing strategist. Starts Monday. I’ll be on the same floor as her. Same team. Same meetings. Same everything."

Marcus took a slow sip of his bourbon, letting the burn slide down his throat before he answered.

"You really think you can pull this off without Martin noticing?"

Clara laughed—low, confident, a little cruel.

"With my competence? I can pull this up and make sure Fiona never sees another day there. I’ll be brilliant. Invaluable. The one who fixes all her little mistakes. The one who looks good while she looks sloppy. The one who gets promoted while she gets pushed out."

Marcus set the glass down.

"What about Martin? He won’t make life hell for you?"

Clara stepped closer, hips swaying, until she was standing between his legs. She placed both palms on his thighs, leaned in until her lips were a breath from his.

"No, he won’t."

Her fingers slid upward, teasing the edge of his belt.

"He’ll be too busy pretending he doesn’t see me. Too busy trying to keep his little secret affair quiet. Too busy fucking her in their apartment while I’m quietly dismantling her career from the inside."

Marcus’s breath hitched when her fingers found the buckle.

"You’re playing with fire, Clara."

"I like fire," she whispered.

She sank to her knees right there in the kitchen—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on his.

Marcus groaned when her mouth closed over him.

Rough. Hungry. No teasing.

She took him deep, fast, the way she always did when she wanted to remind him who held the power in these moments. One hand braced on his thigh, the other stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. She sucked hard, hollowed her cheeks, let him hit the back of her throat over and over until his hand fisted in her hair and his hips jerked.

"Fuck," he growled.

She hummed around him—vibrating, smug.

He came fast—hard, sudden, spilling down her throat while she swallowed every drop like it was victory.

When she pulled back, lips swollen and glistening, she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him.

"See?" she said, voice husky. "I can handle anything."

Marcus reached down, hauled her up by the arms, kissed her hard—tasting himself on her tongue.

"You’re dangerous," he muttered against her mouth.

"You love it."

He spun her around, bent her over the island.

The dress rode up without protest.

No underwear.

Of course.

He didn’t bother with gentleness.

He thrust into her in one brutal stroke.

Clara gasped—half pain, half pleasure—then pushed back against him, meeting every slam of his hips with her own.

"Harder," she demanded.

He obliged.

The marble was cold under her palms; the city lights glittered through the window like they were watching. He fucked her like he was punishing her, like he was punishing Fiona through her, like he could fuck the jealousy out of his system.

Clara moaned—loud, shameless—head thrown back, hair spilling across her shoulders.

"Tell me you’ll ruin her," Marcus growled against her ear.

"I’ll ruin her," Clara gasped. "I’ll make her look incompetent. I’ll make her look unstable. I’ll make her quit before the event even starts."

Marcus gripped her hips tighter.

"Promise me."

"I promise," she panted. "She’ll be gone. And you’ll have me. All of me."

He came with a guttural sound—deep inside her, marking her the way he wished he could mark Fiona.

Clara shuddered through her own release—nails scraping the marble, body clenching around him.

They stayed locked together for a moment—breathing hard, sweat-slick, hearts pounding.

Then Marcus pulled out.

Stepped back.

Adjusted himself.

Clara straightened her dress, turned to face him.

Her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes were bright with victory.