Nine Pregnancies, Nine Betrayals,The Billionaire Wife's Revenge

He was getting anxious. Just like that, he was still the same boy who'd knelt before me eight years ago, begging me for a million-dollar investment to save his company.

"It's not that I don't trust you."

My voice came out soft, almost weightless.

"Darrell, you haven't slept well a single night since I got pregnant. I just don't want you running yourself into the ground."

My words smoothed the crease between his brows.

"I'm sorry, Beverly. I was overthinking it. You're right. We'll switch doctors."

"I'll arrange the best OB-GYN for you, second only to myself. Don't worry. Our baby is going to be born safe and sound."

A shrill ringtone shattered the quiet of the hospital room.

Darrell glanced at the caller ID, and something flickered deep in his eyes. A flash of unmistakable elation, there and gone in an instant.

He reached out and gently rubbed the top of my head.

"Beverly, something came up at the office. I need to run, but if you feel uneasy about anything, call me. Anytime."

He was already heading for the door, waving his phone at me over his shoulder.

"I'm always here for you."

The door closed with a soft click.

Then, from the hallway, came the hushed voice of Darrell's assistant.

"Mr. Farley, are we really switching doctors for the surgery in three days? That's going to be tricky to pull off..."

"We're not switching anything!"

Darrell's voice cut through like a blade.

"I was just humoring her. Once the anesthesia kicks in, how's she going to know who's operating on her? Don't tell me you've become as stupid as the woman in that room."

Sycophantic laughter trailed off down the corridor until the hallway fell silent again.

I dug my nails into my palms until the skin screamed.

I hated myself. Hated that for eight years I'd willingly stripped off my armor and forged, with my own hands, the very blade now aimed at my throat.

But it didn't matter.

If I had the power to forge him, I had the power to destroy him.

The moment Darrell left, the listening device I'd planted on him picked up a signal.

I opened the app.

His low voice bled through the speaker.

"That was careless of me. If she wants a different doctor, we play the part. Send over an unfamiliar face later."

"Oh, and prepare an abortion pill. Have her take it first, just to be safe. Something about this whole thing feels off. I can't shake it."

"Relax, Mr. Farley. The boys have been watching her around the clock. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Fine. Get it done."

Two hours later, an unfamiliar doctor knocked on my door.

Darrell followed him in.

A cold draft slipped through the window, and with it came a scent I recognized immediately. Women's perfume. The kind Rebecca always wore.

My gaze drifted upward.

There, tucked beneath the collar of his dress shirt, half-hidden in the fabric's fold, sat a fresh lipstick stain.

I thought of the sounds that had come through the app just moments ago. The unmistakable, intimate sounds of a man and a woman together.

My stomach lurched. I grabbed the edge of the bed and retched, a dry, violent heave that tore through the silence.

"Beverly..."

Darrell rushed toward me, eyes wide with manufactured concern.

The closer he got, the stronger that cloying perfume hit. It flooded my nostrils, thick and suffocating.

I shoved him away.

The doctor stepped forward at once, steadying Darrell by the arm, his voice low and reassuring.

"Mr. Farley, don't worry. It's perfectly common for expectant mothers to experience nausea from pre-delivery anxiety."

He placed a single pill in Darrell's palm.

"Have your wife take this. She'll feel better."

Darrell locked eyes with the doctor for one brief, loaded moment.

Then the doctor left the room.