He Stole My Empire, So I Married His Enemy

I walked down the stairs, the smell of burnt bacon assaulting my senses. My head still throbbed from the stress, but the silence in the house was worse. It was too quiet. Too controlled.

I pushed open the kitchen door and froze.

Jennie was standing at my stove. She was wearing one of Paul’s oversized dress shirts, her hair messy in a way that suggested she hadn’t just woken up in the guest room. She was humming, flipping eggs in my pan.

She turned, spotting me. A bright, sickeningly sweet smile plastered onto her face.

"Good morning!" she chirped, waving the spatula. "Are you okay, Miss Olivia? You took quite a tumble yesterday. I made breakfast."

My stomach turned. The audacity was suffocating.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice raspy but cold. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. "I don't want you in my house. Get out."

Jennie’s smile didn't falter. She just tilted her head, looking at me like I was a petulant child.

"Paul asked me to stay," she said innocently.

"I don't care what Paul asked," I snapped. "This is my home. Get out."

"What is happening here?"

Paul’s voice boomed from the hallway. He walked in, buttoning his cuffs, looking fresh and unbothered. He didn't even look at me. He walked straight to Jennie.

"She’s trying to kick me out, Paul," Jennie pouted, leaning into him. "I was just trying to be nice. I made eggs."

Paul finally looked at me. His eyes were hard, void of any warmth.

"She stays," he said simply.

"Excuse me?" I let out a sharp, disbelief-filled laugh. "You want your mistress living in our house? Are you insane?"

"She is not just my mistress," Paul said, grabbing an apple from the bowl. "She is my assistant. And from now on, she will be your companion."

"My companion?" I repeated, the word tasting like bile.

"To make sure you don't embarrass me again," Paul said, taking a bite of the apple. "To make sure you don't go running off to hotels with clients. You clearly can't be trusted on your own, Olivia. Jennie will watch you."

I stared at him. He was serious. He was going to keep me prisoner in my own home, guarded by the woman he was sleeping with.

"You have to be kidding me," I scoffed. "I’m not a child, Paul. And I didn't sleep with anyone. You know that video was fake."

"I know what I saw," he said dismissively.

"Fine," I said, straightening my spine. "If I’m such a whore, if I’m such an embarrassment to the great Paul, then divorce me. Let me go."

The room went silent. Jennie stopped cooking. Paul stopped chewing.

He swallowed slowly, then laughed. It was a dark, mocking sound.

"Divorce you?" he sneered, stepping closer. "And let you take half my company? Let you run off into the sunset? No."

He stopped inches from my face, his breath smelling of mint and cruelty.

"You aren't going anywhere, Olivia. You are my wife. You belong to me. Besides, where would you go? I froze your accounts. I ruined your reputation. You have nothing without me."

"I have my dignity," I spat. "And I have options. Maybe I’ll go find those men you think I fucked. Maybe they’ll treat me better than you do."

Paul’s face twisted. The mask of indifference cracked. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.

"You will not," he growled. "You are my wife. You will act like one."

He shoved me back, his mood shifting instantly from rage to a terrifying, patronizing calm.

"Look, we can fix this," he said, smoothing his tie. "I can forgive you, Olivia. I’m a generous man. Just follow my rules. Do what I say. Stay here with Jennie, keep your mouth shut, and we can be a happy family. I’m willing to overlook your... indiscretions."

I looked at him—really looked at him. He was delusional. He had framed me, and now he was offering me "forgiveness" for a crime I didn't commit, just to keep me under his control.

I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I just rolled my eyes.

"You're pathetic," I muttered.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Paul barked.

I didn't stop. "To the clinic."

"What clinic?"

I paused at the doorway, looking back over my shoulder. "To get an abortion. I’m not bringing a child into this hell."

"No!"

Paul moved faster than I thought possible. He crossed the kitchen in two strides and slammed the door shut, blocking my exit.

"You will not touch that child," he hissed, his face red.

"Why do you care?" I asked, tilting my head. "You said it wasn't yours. You announced to the world that it was a bastard. Why would you want another man's baby?"

Paul faltered for a second. His eyes darted to Jennie, then back to me. He shrugged, regaining his composure.

"Grandpa wants an heir," he said coldly. "He’s dying. He won't sign over the rest of the estate until he sees a great-grandchild. I don't care whose blood is in it. I just need the baby."

"You're a monster," I whispered. "You're going to use an innocent child for money?"

"I'm using everything for money, Olivia," he said. "Including you."

He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, marching me out of the kitchen and toward the basement stairs.

"You aren't going to the clinic," he said. "You aren't going anywhere."

"Paul, stop!" I struggled, but he was too strong.

He shoved me into the guest room—the one with the heavy oak door and no windows. I stumbled, catching myself on the bedframe.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Jennie will bring you food. But you don't leave this room until that baby is born."

"You can't do this!" I screamed, rushing the door.

He slammed it in my face. I heard the distinct click of the deadbolt sliding home.

"Paul!" I pounded on the wood. "Paul, let me out!"

"Rest up, honey," his voice came through the door, muffled but clear. "You're eating for two now."

I heard his footsteps fade away, followed by Jennie’s giggle.

I slid down the door until I hit the floor, the silence of the room swallowing my scream. I was trapped.