I’m Back, Mr. CEO

: The First Betrayal

Adrian’s fist hit the table so hard his wine glass tipped over, red spreading across the white tablecloth like blood. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” Vivian continued, unbothered by his anger. “She could be pregnant by anyone. That man from the charity event, the one who couldn’t take his eyes off her. What was his name? Lucas something?”

“Stop.” My voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Or maybe one of the staff. It’s not unheard of, lonely wives seeking attention elsewhere.”

“I said stop.”

“Vivian.” Adrian’s voice was deadly quiet. “That’s enough.”

She sat back, satisfied. The damage was done. I could see it in Margaret’s eyes, the seed of doubt planted and already taking root.

“I want a paternity test,” Margaret announced.

The world tilted.

“What?” I couldn’t have heard that right. Couldn’t have.

“A paternity test. Before we acknowledge this child, before we accept any responsibility, I want proof that it’s Adrian’s.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am perfectly serious. You’ve given us no reason to trust you. You’re weak, you’re manipulative, and now you’re making claims that could impact this family’s legacy. I want proof.”

I looked at Adrian. Waited for him to defend me. To tell his mother she was being ridiculous. To say he trusted me, believed me, knew I would never…

But he said nothing. Just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes on the spilled wine spreading across the table.

He wasn’t going to defend me.

He never was.

“Fine.” The word came out cold. Hard. “I’ll take your paternity test. I’ll prove this baby is his. And when I do, when there’s no possible doubt left, you’ll all have to live with the fact that you accused me of this. That you believed I could do something so…”

I couldn’t finish. My throat was too tight.

I pushed back from the table, leaving the sonogram lying there among the spilled wine and broken trust. My legs felt shaky as I walked toward the door.

“Serena.”

Adrian’s voice stopped me. I didn’t turn around.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

I left them sitting there. Margaret with her accusations. Vivian with her satisfied smile. Adrian with his silence.

I made it to the stairs before the tears came. Made it to the bedroom before the sobs broke free. Made it to the bathroom before I collapsed, sliding down the wall to the cold tile floor.

My hands found my stomach. Pressed against it. Protective. Desperate.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the tiny life growing inside me. “I’m so sorry you’re coming into this. I’m so sorry they already doubt you. I’m so sorry your father doesn’t want you and your grandmother thinks you’re a lie.”

My phone was in my pocket. I pulled it out with shaking hands.

Lucas Grant’s message was still there. *If you need anything, call me.*

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I started typing.

**Me:** *I need help.*

The response came almost immediately.

**Lucas:** *What do you need?*

**Me:** *A lawyer. The best one you know.*

There was a pause. Then:

**Lucas:** *I’ll have someone contact you first thing in the morning. Are you safe?*

Was I safe? In this house, with these people, with a husband who looked at me like a problem to be solved?

**Me:** *For now.*

**Lucas:** *Call me if that changes. Anytime. I mean it.*

I set the phone down and wrapped my arms around myself.

Outside the bathroom door, I could hear movement. Voices. Vivian’s laugh drifting up from downstairs, light and carefree, like she’d already won.

Maybe she had.

But I was done being the woman who took it silently. Done being the wife who accepted every cruelty with grace.

They wanted a paternity test? Fine. I’d give them their test. I’d prove this baby was Adrian’s.

And then I’d make them all regret ever doubting me.

——

Clara arrived at seven in the morning, coffee in one hand and murder in her eyes.

“Get dressed. We’re going to the hospital.”

I’d been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying last night’s dinner over and over. The accusations. The demands. The way Adrian had just stood there, silent.

“Clara, I—”

“No.” She walked into the bedroom and started pulling clothes from my closet. “No excuses. No crying. No lying here feeling sorry for yourself. We’re getting those blood tests, we’re getting that paternity proof, and then we’re shoving it down their throats.”

God, I loved her.

Twenty minutes later we were in her car, speeding toward Manhattan General. I’d texted Adrian that I was going to get the tests done. He’d responded with a single word: *Good.*

Not “I’m sorry they doubted you.” Not “You don’t have to do this.” Just *good*.

“I hate him,” Clara said, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white. “I hate him so much I could spit.”

“Get in line.”

“No, Serena. I’m serious. I’ve known you for ten years. Ten years of watching you bend yourself into impossible shapes for that man. And this? Accusing you of cheating? Demanding proof that your baby is his? After everything he’s done?”

My throat tightened. “His mother demanded it. Not him.”

“And he didn’t stop her. That’s the same thing.” She glanced at me. “Please tell me you’re thinking about leaving.”

Was I? The thought had crossed my mind approximately ten thousand times since last night. Pack a bag. Walk out. Never look back.

But where would I go? This city was Adrian’s. These people were his. Even my few remaining friends were mostly connections through him.

And then there was the baby.

My hand drifted to my stomach. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Well, start thinking about it. Because they’re going to destroy you if you stay.”

The hospital was quiet this early. We checked in at the lab, and a kind-faced technician took my blood while Clara held my other hand.

“Results will be ready in three days,” the technician said. “We’ll email them to you and any other parties you’ve listed.”

I’d listed Adrian and Margaret. Let them see the proof in black and white.

“Three days,” I murmured as we walked back to the car.

“Three days until you’re vindicated,” Clara corrected. “Three days until they have to eat every single word.”

We sat in the parking garage for a moment, neither of us moving to start the car.

“I messaged Lucas Grant last night,” I said quietly.

Clara went very still. “Lucas Grant. The CEO Lucas Grant?”

“He texted me after the news broke. Offered help. I asked him for a lawyer recommendation.”

“Serena.” Clara turned to face me fully. “Did Adrian see those messages?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so. Serena, listen to me very carefully.” Her voice was urgent. “You cannot be messaging other men right now. Especially not men like Lucas Grant. Do you understand? They’re already accusing you of infidelity. If they find out you’re talking to him—”

“He was just being nice.”

“I don’t care if he was offering you a kidney. You need to cut all communication with him. Delete the messages. Block his number. Give them absolutely nothing they can use against you.”

My chest tightened. She was right. Of course she was right.

“He’s supposed to send me a lawyer’s contact this morning.”

“Then thank him politely, professionally, and then block him. I’m serious, Serena. They will twist anything they can to paint you as the villain. Don’t give them ammunition.”

I pulled out my phone. Lucas had already messaged.

**Lucas:** *My attorney will contact you at 9 AM. Her name is Rebecca Chen. Best in the city. Tell her I sent you and she’ll prioritize your case.*

**Lucas:** *How are you holding up?*

I showed Clara the messages. She read them, then looked at me.

“Thank him. Then block him. Now.”

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Lucas had been kind when no one else was. He’d offered help when I had nothing.

But Clara was right. In Adrian’s world, kindness from another man would be seen as guilt.

**Me:** *Thank you so much for the referral. I really appreciate your help during this difficult time. I think it’s best if we don’t communicate further. I hope you understand.*

I hit send before I could second-guess it. Then I blocked his number.

“Good,” Clara said. “Now let’s get you home so you can receive that lawyer’s call.”

Home. The word felt wrong. That house wasn’t home. It was a battlefield.