Chapter 3
Fletcher brought me to a quiet, gated community on the other side of Scottsdale. A safe house—one he used for clients who needed privacy.
That night, I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the baby name book. I traced the names I had circled. Names Reginald had pretended to like. Names he had said were “acceptable.”
All of it had been a lie.
He had known. All along. He had known the baby was his. And he had been planning to discard me anyway.
But why?
The next morning, Fletcher arrived with files.
“I pulled what I could,” he said, spreading papers across the dining table. “Reginald Whitfield. Sixty-two companies. Thirty-seven properties. Net worth estimated at two point three billion. And very little of it is in his name directly.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He shuffles assets,” Fletcher said. “Transfers them to shell companies. To associates. To his daughter, Vivian. He’s been moving things around aggressively over the past six weeks. Selling real estate. Liquidating stock. Moving millions into offshore accounts.” He looked up at me. “Right around the time you hit six months.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“Six months,” I whispered. “When the pregnancy started showing.”
“When people started asking questions,” Fletcher said. “When it became undeniable that there was going to be an heir.”
I stood up and walked to the window. The Arizona sun was bright and harsh.
“Vivian,” I said. “His daughter. She stands to inherit everything if I… disappear. If the baby is declared illegitimate.”
“Exactly,” Fletcher said. “If he can convince everyone the child isn’t his, your son gets nothing. You get nothing. Vivian keeps the empire. And Reginald stays in control without sharing it with another heir.”
“But that’s insane,” I said. “He’s his own son. His blood.”
“Some men don’t care about blood when it gets in the way of power,” Fletcher said quietly. “Or when there’s a secret they’re terrified will come out.”
I turned back to him. “What secret?”
Fletcher hesitated.
“Fletcher,” I said. “Tell me.”
He took a breath.
“Rumor has it,” he said, “that Reginald Whitfield hasn’t been able to have children for nearly ten years. Medical complications. Never made public. If that’s true… and your baby is due eight months after you conceived… then suddenly, this baby appearing out of nowhere threatens everything. His reputation. His legacy. The very foundation of the empire he’s built.”
The room tilted.
“If people believe he can’t have children,” I said slowly, “then a baby appearing now makes everyone ask… whose is it?”
“And if he can convince everyone you cheated,” Fletcher finished, “he gets to disown you. Disinherit the child. Protect the lie. And keep it all within the family he already controls.”
I gripped the back of the chair.
“He’s not hiding the baby,” I said. “He’s hiding the truth. About himself.”
“Which means,” Fletcher said, “he cannot let this child be born. Not publicly. Not with proof of his paternity. Because the moment that baby’s DNA matches his… the world will know he’s been lying about his health, his heirs, and possibly the legitimacy of his entire line.”
The baby wasn’t an insult.
May you like
The baby was the proof.
The proof that Reginald Whitfield had been lying to everyone—including his own daughter—for years.
