Everyone said I was born a jinx.
When I was ten, my family's company collapsed, and I was thrown out onto the streets.
That was why I thought Julian Croft was my godsend.
He took me in when I had nothing, wiping the rain from my face and promising to protect me forever.
I gave him my absolute devotion, enduring his family's disdain and secretly funding his failing business.
Whenever his grandfather humiliated me, he stood in front of me.
Whenever his childhood friend Clara cried, he told her I was the only Mrs. Croft.
I loved him with every fiber of my being.
Three years later, we finally moved into a mansion of our own.
He kissed my forehead every morning, making me believe I was the luckiest woman alive.
But on our third anniversary, the cracks began to show.
I drove to his office early to surprise him with a homemade lunch.
Before I could open his door, I heard voices from inside.
"Julian, are you really going to stay with that useless woman forever?" Clara's voice whined.
"Of course not," Julian sneered coldly.
"Then why haven't you kicked her out yet? I'm tired of waiting!"
"She still has some use left, Clara. The moment I secure that investment, I'll toss her back to the streets where she belongs."
***
I folded the ultrasound report exactly in half, keeping my eyes fixed on the black-and-white image confirming I was eight weeks pregnant. I slipped the paper deep into the hidden pocket of my Hermes bag. The heavy glass doors of the private clinic shut behind me, sealing away the sterile scent of the waiting room. Rainwater pooled in the uneven concrete of the parking lot, reflecting the gray afternoon sky. I adjusted my grip on the leather handles. The tiny life growing inside me was not leverage or a bargaining chip. It was the secret I intended to protect until I was ready to bring it into the light.
A deafening screech of rubber tore through the damp air.
A black Maybach drifted hard to the right, tires tearing violently across the wet asphalt. It slammed to a halt, the polished steel bumper stopping mere inches from my knees, blocking my path to my car.
The tinted rear window glided down.
Julian sat in the plush leather interior, his posture rigid and his expression steeped in arrogant boredom. He did not look at my face. He evaluated my shoes, then my coat, scanning me like a depreciated asset.
A thick manila folder flew out of the window. It slapped against my chest and fell into a muddy puddle at my feet.
"Get in the car, Hazel," Julian ordered.
I stared down at the ruined document. The bold heading read Remarriage and Heir Agreement.
"You have exactly three seconds to move this vehicle before I call the police," I warned.
Julian sighed, adjusting the silver cufflink on his left wrist. "Stop the theatrics. I know you have been struggling. Pick up the contract, read the terms, and get inside."
"Struggling?" A dry laugh scraped my throat. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?"
"I am offering you a way back," he continued, ignoring my tone. "The Croft board is demanding a legitimate heir. Clara cannot conceive due to her fragile health. You will remarry me, provide a son, and in exchange, I will restore your status as my wife. You will not have to scrape by anymore."
My knuckles turned white as I squeezed the handles of my bag. He actually believed I was the same pathetic, desperate woman from seven years ago.
"You want me to be a surrogate for you and your mistress," I stated, keeping my voice deadpan.
"Clara is my partner," Julian snapped, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. "And you will show her respect. This arrangement benefits everyone. You get the Croft name back, and we get the child."
I took a step forward, closing the distance to the open window, and kicked the soaked folder. The toe of my pump smeared mud directly across his printed signature.
"The Croft name is worthless to me," I told him.
Julian unbuttoned his suit jacket, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I remember how you used to beg for my attention, Hazel. You used to wait up until three in the morning just to heat up my dinner. A woman like that does not just move on. You are playing a game, and frankly, I lack the patience for it today."
I studied the man I once worshipped. He truly lived in a fabricated reality.
"I waited up because I thought you were working," I replied. "Not because I was pathetic. I was loyal. There is a massive difference."
"Loyalty is exactly what I need right now," he countered quickly. "Clara is too soft for the cruelty of the board. She needs protection. You understand duty. You understand sacrifice."
"So I am to be the sacrificial lamb again?"
"You will be compensated," Julian insisted. "A penthouse. A black card. You can live whatever life you want, as long as you carry my child and stay out of Clara's way."
"You want a broodmare," I corrected him.
"I want a Croft," he demanded. "And you are the only one who can give it to me without causing a scandal. The press already knows you. A reunion story will double our stock prices by Monday."
"Your stock prices are built on a foundation I paid for."
Julian rolled his eyes. "Do not start with the delusions again."
"Five million dollars, Julian." I stepped closer, refusing to let him look away. "When the European merger fell through, and your creditors were threatening to seize the downtown properties, where do you think the bailout money came from?"
He frowned. "An anonymous angel investor. The bank handled the transaction."
"I was the investor." I tapped the side of my Hermes bag. "I sold my grandfather's estate. I funneled the cash through a proxy firm. I gave you everything I had to keep Croft Industries afloat."
Julian's eyes darted back and forth, searching my face for a lie. "Impossible. You were a housewife."
"I was your savior," I spat. "And while I was signing away my inheritance to save your pride, you were in a hotel suite with Clara, planning how to serve me divorce papers."
I gestured to the glass doors of the clinic behind me. "You could not even wait until we got home. You ambushed me right here. You threw the papers at my face and told me I was useless because I could not get pregnant fast enough for your liking."
Julian crossed his arms, his posture stiffening. "You were barren. The doctors confirmed it."
I pressed my hand against my bag, feeling the rigid edge of the ultrasound report inside. "The doctors said I was stressed. Stressed from a husband who smelled like another woman's perfume every single night."
"Clara was sick that day," Julian retorted, his voice rising in defense. "She called me crying. She had a fever."
"A fake fever," I shot back. "I saw the photos she posted online an hour later, sipping champagne at the Four Seasons while I was suffering from a stress-induced hemorrhage. You left your bleeding wife in the snow to comfort a woman with a hangover."
Julian flinched, a brief crack in his armor, but he quickly masked it with a scowl. "You are exaggerating to play the victim. It does not matter now. The past is the past. You were always the strong one, Hazel. You did not need me."
"No, I didn't," I agreed softly. "And I certainly do not need you now."
I turned on my heel and began walking around the front of the Maybach. I had wasted enough breath on a ghost.
"Hazel!"
The heavy car door swung open, striking the side of a parked sedan with a loud crunch. Julian stepped out into the damp air, his tall frame moving with aggressive speed. He blocked my path again, his chest heaving with barely suppressed rage.
"We are not finished here," he snarled.
"We finished seven years ago," I said, keeping my chin high. "Move."
"You are coming with me to the courthouse." Julian raised his hand, his fingers curling into a tight grip. "I am not asking you this time. You will sign the papers, and you will give me an heir."
"Don't you dare touch me."
He lunged forward, his large hand aiming straight for my shoulder to drag me toward the open car door.
Before his fingers could even graze the fabric of my coat, a massive hand clamped onto his wrist.
The grip was brutal, stopping Julian's momentum instantly.
The cold metal of a Patek Philippe watch gleamed in the gray light, resting against the stranger's thick wrist.
