Pregnant and Divorced: I Hid His Heir

The penthouse was silent, a glass and steel box floating above the city. Vivian lay in the master bedroom, the duvet pulled up to her chin. She wasn't sleeping. She was listening.

At 2:00 AM, the biometric lock on the front door beeped.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She heard his footsteps on the hardwood floor. They were heavy, tired. He didn't go to the kitchen. He came straight to the bedroom.

The door opened. Vivian controlled her breathing, forcing it into a slow, rhythmic pattern. She smelled him before she felt him. He smelled of rain, of the damp London air, and of something else. A perfume. It was floral, heavy, expensive. It was not hers.

The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Vivian lay perfectly still. She felt the heat of his body radiating through the sheets. For a moment, his hand hovered over her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his palm. She flinched. It was a tiny, involuntary movement, a reflex born of the pain in her chest.

Julian froze. He interpreted the flinch as rejection. He withdrew his hand immediately. The coldness returned to the space between them.

He stood up. He loosened his tie-she could hear the silk sliding against the fabric of his collar. He walked into the bathroom.

The shower ran for twenty minutes. Vivian lay in the dark, her hand resting on the hidden bottle of pills she had tucked under her pillow. She wondered if he was washing the smell of the other woman off his skin. She wondered if he felt guilty.

Morning light hit the floor-to-ceiling windows with a harsh, grey brightness. Vivian was already up. She was in the kitchen, moving mechanically. She prepared a light breakfast-toast, fruit, black coffee for him. The smell of the coffee made bile rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down, clutching the counter until the nausea passed.

Julian entered the kitchen. He was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, his face an unreadable mask of corporate efficiency. He looked like the cover of Forbes. He did not look like a husband who had come home at 2:00 AM smelling of someone else.

He ignored the coffee she had poured. He checked his watch impatiently.

Vivian stood by the marble island. The stone was cold under her fingertips. This was it. She had to tell him. The doctor said stress was dangerous. This silence was stress.

Julian, she started. Her voice was steady, practiced.

He looked up. His eyes were blue, cold as ice. "We need to talk about the contract," he said.

Vivian stopped. The words died on her tongue.

Julian reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope. He slid it across the marble island. The sound of the paper scraping against the stone was loud in the quiet kitchen.

Vivian looked down. She recognized the wax seal. It was the Sterling Corp legal department seal.

The three-year marriage contract has concluded, Julian said. His voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were discussing a merger or an acquisition. "The term is up."

Vivian felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees went weak. She gripped the edge of the island to keep from falling.

Serena is back, he added. He said it casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. As if Serena wasn't the ghost that had haunted their entire marriage. As if Serena wasn't the reason he never looked at Vivian the way a husband should.

Vivian stared at him. The name hung in the air, sucking the oxygen out of the room.

She opened the envelope with trembling fingers. The title of the document stared back at her in bold, black letters: DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Julian checked his phone. A message lit up the screen. For a second, just a microsecond, his face softened. The hard lines around his mouth relaxed. Then he looked back at Vivian, and the professional detachment returned.

I've arranged a generous settlement, he said. "You will be taken care of. The apartment in Chelsea is yours. A monthly stipend for five years."

Vivian swallowed the bile that was rising again. She felt like she was drowning.

Is this because of her? she whispered.

Julian stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket. It was a gesture of finality.

It was always temporary, Vivian. You knew that. My grandfather wanted this union. He is gone. The obligation is over.

He walked to the door. He didn't look back. He didn't say goodbye. He just left.

Vivian stood there, clutching the marble. The room spun.

She looked down at the papers again. Her eyes blurred, but she forced herself to focus on the fine print. She needed to know how he was destroying her.

Her eyes landed on Clause 14B.

Any pregnancy resulting from the union must be disclosed immediately. The Father reserves the right to demand termination of the pregnancy to prevent complications regarding estate lineage. Should the pregnancy proceed to term against the Father's wishes, sole legal and physical custody shall revert exclusively to Julian Sterling, and the child shall be placed in a private boarding arrangement abroad. The mother waives all rights to contact or visitation.

Vivian gasped. The air left her lungs.

Termination. Or he would take the baby and send it away. He would erase her from her own child's life to keep his world "clean."

The housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, entered the kitchen. She saw the papers spread out on the island. She saw Vivian's face. She looked away, embarrassed, pretending to busy herself with the dishes.

Vivian's hand shook as she reached into her pocket. She touched the cold plastic of the pill bottle she had relabeled.

She pushed it deeper into her pocket.

She couldn't tell him. She could never tell him. Not if she wanted this baby to survive. Not if she wanted to be a mother.