Married the Prince While Pregnant

Jasmine wasn't infertile. That was the cruel irony.

The fertility specialist had been clear. Her hormone levels were normal. Her reproductive anatomy was perfectly healthy. There was no medical reason she couldn't conceive. The problem had never been her body. It had been the fact that Lachlan barely touched her, and when he did, it was perfunctory—a mechanical exercise in marital obligation that left her feeling more alone than if he'd simply stayed on his side of the bed.

The "barren hen" narrative was just another weapon in Meredith's arsenal. The real issue was the Hayes family's spectacular financial collapse. Two leveraged bets on high-risk ventures had detonated simultaneously, vaporizing the family's liquidity and leaving them teetering on the edge of insolvency. The old-money prestige that had made Jasmine an acceptable match had evaporated. Now she was just an inconvenient reminder of a bad investment.

Jasmine had always known she was an outsider in the Carlisle-Beaumont world. But the extent of the family's contempt had only become clear after Alastair's death. That was when Seraphina's true position in the household had been revealed. She wasn't just the grieving widow. She was the golden child, the beloved daughter-in-law, the woman who could do no wrong. And Jasmine was the spare. The placeholder. The one who'd been chosen only because the woman Lachlan really wanted had married his brother first.

She'd found the photograph a month ago. Anonymous sender. No note. Just the image: Lachlan and Seraphina outside a luxury hotel, his hand resting possessively on the curve of her spine, her body angled into his with the easy intimacy of long familiarity. They looked like a couple. They looked like they belonged together.

That was the real donation process. Not a sterile clinic procedure. Not a medical transfer of frozen samples. A hotel room. A betrayal that predated Alastair's death, or that had begun so quickly afterward it made no difference.

Jasmine had stared at that photograph for hours. She'd expected to feel rage. Heartbreak. The visceral agony of a woman watching her marriage dissolve. Instead, she'd felt something unexpected: clarity.

She'd been a fool. She'd loved a man who'd never loved her back. She'd sacrificed her career, her ambitions, her sense of self, all for a marriage that had been hollow from the start. And now she knew the truth. Now she could act.

She drove to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital's maternity wing, her mind cold and clear. The family had spared no expense for Seraphina's delivery. Beatrice, the matriarch, had flown in a private obstetrician from London. The VIP suite was larger than most Manhattan apartments, filled with fresh flowers and the soft hum of premium medical equipment.

Seraphina lay propped against a mountain of silk pillows, her complexion dewy and radiant. She looked nothing like a woman who'd supposedly just endured hours of agonizing labor. She looked like she'd stepped out of a spa advertisement. Lachlan sat at her bedside, cradling a porcelain bowl of soup. He lifted each spoonful to his lips first—testing the temperature, blowing gently—before guiding it to Seraphina's mouth with a tenderness that bordered on reverence.

Jasmine stood in the doorway, watching.

In three years of marriage, Lachlan had never once shown her that kind of care. Their interactions were transactional. Polished. Distant. Even in their most intimate moments, he'd been clinical, almost detached. She'd convinced herself that was simply his nature—a man raised in such rarefied air that he'd forgotten how to bend. But watching him with Seraphina, she understood the truth. He remembered perfectly well how to bend. He just chose not to do it for her.

"Jasmine!" Seraphina's face brightened with theatrical delight. "You came!"

The word sister-in-law scraped against Jasmine's nerves like sandpaper.

Lachlan dabbed at Seraphina's mouth with a linen napkin before acknowledging his wife. "You're here."

"I said I would be."

"Good. Stay with Sera for a while. I'm going down to get her some grapes. She's been craving them." He stood, already moving toward the door. "I know what kind she likes. Might pick up a few other things. The market's just downstairs. Won't be long."

Seraphina's voice went syrupy. "Oh, you don't have to go yourself. Send one of the staff."

"No." Lachlan's eyes softened. "I want to."

As he passed Jasmine, his gaze dropped to the bouquet in her hands. His expression flickered with something close to irritation. "Put those on the balcony. Sera doesn't like sunflowers."

Jasmine's fingers tightened around the stems. She imagined, very briefly, the satisfying crunch of the arrangement meeting his perfect jawline. Instead, she smiled thinly. "Of course."

Seraphina patted the bed beside her. "Come. Sit with me."

Jasmine ignored the outstretched hand and pulled up a chair instead.

"You're still angry with me, aren't you?" Seraphina's eyes immediately glistened with unshed tears. It was an impressive performance. Truly. The trembling lip. The catch in her voice. The wounded vulnerability radiating from every pore. "I know using Lachlan's... genetic material... was difficult for you. But I—"

The tears spilled over, right on cue.

"Alastair and I had plans. After the wedding, we were going to enjoy being newlyweds for a year, and then we wanted children so badly. I wanted to give him a family. And then—" Her voice cracked dramatically. "Then everything was taken from me. I loved him so much. I love this family. All I wanted was to give Alastair a legacy. A piece of himself that would live on after him. Is that so wrong?"

She reached for Jasmine's hand. This time, Jasmine didn't pull away quickly enough.

"Lachlan and Alastair were twins. That's the only reason I asked him. There was nothing else. Nothing. You have to believe me. Please don't hate me. Please."

Jasmine's throat tightened around the words she wanted to say. The photograph. The hotel. The truth rotting beneath this pretty performance. She opened her mouth to respond, and a sharp voice cut through the room like a blade.