The Secret Pregnancy of the Billionaire's Ex-Wife

With His Baby The Billionaire's Secret Scandal 312 2/2 "You should divorce him," I told my mother when she regained consciousness, not for the first time.

Her face contorted with anger. "Why? So you can side with that whore too? I won't give him to any other woman. He's mine." The psychiatrist recommended a change of environment—a mental health facility in London, away from the toxic reminders of her failing marriage. I agreed to accompany her, to help manage my grandfather's company there while she recovered.

I called Angela before I left, wanting to explain my sudden departure maybe even confess my feelings despite the terrible timing. But all I managed was awkward small talk. She asked about my mother, expressed sympathy, wishedluck in London.

After hanging up, the truth hitwith brutal clarity. Angela had only ever been warm tobecause I was Sean's friend. Without that connection, we had nothing to say to each other.

In London, I drowned in work and my mother's increasingly unstable behavior. Her moods swung between despair and rage, and I was her favorite target. It wasn't new-she'd been lashing out atsince I was a child, especially after fights with my father. Every slap, every cutting word from her just drovedeeper into my work givingan excuse to spend less tat the facility.

Two years after our move to London, my mother jumped from the roof of the facility. This time, there was no saving her.

At her funeral, my father actually showed up, looking uncomfortable in his dark suit. I caught him checking his watch during the service.

"Seems like she finally found an effective method," I said to him afterward, my voice hollow.

I don't remember deciding to hit him. I just remember the shock on his face as he sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from his lip. That was the last tI saw him. The last tI called him "father," even in my thoughts.

What I didn't know as I dealt with funeral arrangements and estate matters was that Angela's family had gone bankrupt. The Wilson Investment Bank had collapsed. By the tI heard the news and tried to call her, to offer any help I could, I was told that Angela and Sean were engaged.

I should have felt happy for her. She'd finally gotten what she wanted-Sean had seen her at last. But all I felt was a crushing sense of loss, as if a door had permanently closed.

I threw myself into expanding Blake Enterprises, building it into something my grandfather would have been proud of. I dated occasionally, but the relationships never lasted. They all noticed eventually that I was comparing them to someone else.

Years passed. I told myself I was over her. Then I heard rumors about Sean and Angela's marriage-whispers of unhiness, of Sean's wandering eye. When an opportunity arose to expand the company to New York, I seized it without hesitati Seeing them again confirmed the rumors. The tension between them was palpable. Sean's attention clearly focused on Christina whenever she was in the room. Angela's eyes held a weariness I recognized from my mother's-the look of a woman trying desperately to hold onto something already lost.

When I learned they were divorcing-that Sean had indeed chosen Christina over her-I felt a complicated mix of anger and hope. Anger at Sean for hurting her, for being foolish enough to throw away something I would have cherished. Hope because maybe, just maybe, I would finally have my chance.

This twould be different. This time, I wouldn't hesitate. This time, I wouldn't miss my opportunity.

This time, I would make Angela Wilson see me.

1/2 Christopher POV It was winter when I brought Angela to Italy. Angela was four months pregnant then, her belly just beginning to round beneath her oversized sweaters.

I'd purchased a modest villa in the Italian countryside. Nothing too ostentatious-I wanted her comfortable, not overwhelmed.

The locals quickly accepted us as a young couple expecting their first child. Well, children. We learned about the twins during her first ultrasound in Italy.

"Twins," the doctor had said in accented English, pointing to the grainy screen. "Due in summer." Angela's face had paled. I remember reaching for her hand, feeling it tremble in mine. Two babies. Neither of us had expected that.

"We'll manage, I told her on the drive home. "I'll hire help. Whatever you need." She'd just nødded, staring out the window at the passing countryside, her hand resting protectively over her stomach.

The months that followed were a blur of preparations-assembling two of everything, reading every book on twin births I could find, converting an entire wing of the villa into a nursery.

I wanted everything perfect for them. Perfect for her.

They arrived in July, during a heatwave that had the whole region sweating and irritable. Angela had been uncomfortable for weeks, her ankles swollen, her patience thin. When her water broke at three in the morning, I nearly crashed the car rushing her to the hospital, Aria cfirst, screaming her displeasure at the world that had displaced her. Ethan followed seven minutes later, quieter but with a gaze that seemed to take in everything. I stood by Angela's side through it all, holding her hand, wiping her brow, feeling utterly useless against her pain yet unable to leave.

When the nurse placed Aria in my arms, something insideshifted-plates of emotional bedrock sliding into a new configuration. She was tiny, her face red and scrunched in protest, her fists balled tightly as if ready to fight. I touched her cheek with one finger, marveling at the softness of her skin.

"She has your temper," I whispered to Angela, who managed a tired smile. Then cEthan, calmer but no less miraculous. He looked directly at me, his unfocused newborn eyes somehow seeming to see right through me.

I felt a connection that transcended blood, transcended sense. These children weren't mine biologically, but in tha becmine in every way that mattered. ment, they "Hello," I said softly. 'I'm going to take care of you." It was a promise-to them, to Angela, to myself. A vow more binding than any marriage certificate could ever be. The first year was the hardest. Nights blurred into days in an endless cycle of feedings, diaper changes, and brief, precious moments of sleep.

Angela struggled with postpartum depression, sometimes staring blankly at the wall for hours while I tended to the twins. Other days she was manic with energy, reorganizing the nursery at midnight or cooking elaborate meals no one had the appetite to eat.

1/3 I hired a night nurse to help, but Angela was resistant at first.

"They're my babies, she'd insisted, dark circles under her eyes, hair washed for days. "I need to be the one caring for them." "You're exhausted, I'd argued gently. "Just three nights a week. For our health, and theirs." Eventually she relented, and those three nights of uninterrupted sleep made a world of difference. Slowly, the Angela I'd fallen in love with began to resurface- laughing again, singing to the twins, joiningfor evening glasses of wine on the terrace after they'd fallen asleep.

By the tthe twins turned one, we'd established a routine that worked. My business required occasional travel, but I scheduled everything around important milestones.

I was there for their first steps, first words, first tantrums. I documented everything, filling albums with photos that tracked their growth day by day.

T# "You're obsessed," Angela teased once, findingreviewing footage of Ethan's first successful attempt to stack blocks.

"I don't want to miss anything," I'd replied, not taking my eyes off the screen. In the video, my voice could be heard cheering Ethan on, ridiculous with enthusiasm over something so small. But that was the thing about children-they made the small things monumental.

As the twins grew, so did our strange little family unit.

We celebrated holidays together, established traditions-Sunday morning pancakes, summer picnics by the lake, bedtstories that grew more elaborate with each telling.

I taught Ethan to swim, holding his tiny body in the water while he kicked frantically, determined to master this new skill. Angela taught Aria to dance, twirling her around the living room to old jazz records.

Our neighbors simply assumed we were married. "Your husband," they'd say to Angela, or "your wife" to me. Neither of us corrected them. It was easier that way, and part ofliked the pretense, the glimpse into what could be if Angela ever sawas more than a friend.

There were moments I thought it might happen. Late nights on the terrace, wine loosening our usual boundaries when our conversation would drift into more intimate territory. Times when I'd catch her looking atwith something that might have been affection, might have been more.

I'd reach out, brush hair from her face, or rest my hand on hers for just a second too long. She never pulled away.

But she never leaned in either.

The children were always our buffer, intentionally or not. Just as I'd gather my courage, thinking tonight might be the night to tell her how I felt, Aria would have a nightmare or Ethan would develop a sudden fever. By the tthe crisis was averted, the moment had passed. I told myself I was being patient. That Angela needed tto heal from her failed marriage, from Sean's betrayal. That eventually, she would see what was right in front of her-a man who loved her, who loved her children as his own, who had built a life around them I was a fool.

Those five years were the happiest of my life. Every birthday celebration, every Christmas morning, every ordinary Tuesday dinner- they filled a void I hadn't even known existed..

For the first time, I understood what family meant, what it could be, Not the cold, fractured thing I'd grown up with, but something 2/3 warm and solid and real.

The twins called"Uncle Christopher," but in every way that mattered, I was their father. I was the in one who checked for monsters under the bed, who kissed scraped knees, who built elaborate sandcastles on the beach. I was the one Ethan called for when thunderstorms frightened him, the one Aria wanted to show her drawings to first. If I was exhausted, juggling business responsibilities with late-night feedings and early morning cartoons, I never showed it.

The exhaustion was a badge of honor, proof of my commitment to this family I'd claimed as my own.

Chapter Comments LIKE POST COMMENT NOW