Substitute Bride: Dumped by My Husband, Adored by a Billionaire

"We are terminating your contract, Jessica," David said, tossing the legal notice across his glass desk.

"You cannot be serious," I said, my fingers trembling as I picked up the paper. "My *Eternal Bloom* collection launches tomorrow morning. I spent six months refining those jewelry designs."

"They already launched," David replied coldly, turning his laptop screen toward my side of the table. "Two hours ago. Under the Luxe Jewelers brand."

I stared at the high-resolution display. Nancy’s smiling face filled the livestream, standing in front of a velvet case holding my emerald and diamond necklaces.

"Those are my creations," I choked out, tapping the screen. "That vine motif is my signature."

"Nancy released the digital CAD files and her dated Paris sketches to the press at dawn," David barked, crossing his arms over his chest. "She told the media that you hacked her cloud storage while she was moving back to America. She claims you are jealous of her bond with your husband, so you stole her work."

"She is a liar! She stole them from me!"

"Your own studio computer confirms her story," David snapped, leaning forward. "Our IT department analyzed your hard drive an hour ago. The creation timestamps on all your design files were altered yesterday afternoon. You are a thief, Jessica. Your career is over."

"I did not touch those timestamps!" I shouted, slamming my palm on the glass. "Someone accessed my workstation!"

"The合作品牌—our partner brands—already pulled their endorsements," David said, pointing a rigid finger toward the office door. "The internet is calling you a fraud. Get out of my firm before I call security to drag you out."

"I have the physical graphite drafts," I insisted, grabbing my purse from the chair. "The original hand-drawn sketches are in my wall safe at home. I will prove she framed me."

"Do whatever you want," David muttered, turning his back to me. "No label in this city will ever hire you again."

I ran out of the office and drove back to the penthouse like a madwoman, ignoring the dark thunderclouds gathering over the city skyline. I sprinted into the study, spun the combination lock on the safe, and pulled out the thick portfolio of my original drawings.

I needed Harvey. My husband had to see the undeniable proof of what his childhood friend was doing to my life.

I hurried up the curved staircase to the master bedroom. Empty.

A low, rhythmic thumping sound echoed from the far end of the upstairs hallway.

I walked toward the guest suite. The heavy door stood open by an inch.

"Fuck, Harvey, put your cock deeper inside my pussy," Nancy moaned loudly, her voice thick with raw lust.

My feet froze against the carpet.

Through the narrow gap, I looked at the bed. Harvey was on top of her, driving his hips forward, slamming his thick cock into her bare pelvis. Nancy’s legs were wrapped tight around his lower back, her heels digging hard into his skin.

"You feel so fucking good, Nancy," Harvey grunted, his hands grabbing her bare breasts and squeezing hard. "I have wanted to fuck your wet pussy for three fucking years."

"Harder," Nancy gasped, arching her spine to meet his thrusts. "Fuck me harder, Harvey! What if Jessica finds out we're fucking in her house?"

He pulled back and rammed his cock deep inside her again, the wet, slapping sound of their flesh filling the room. "She will never compare to you, Nancy. You're the only woman I want to fuck."

My hands lost all their strength.

The portfolio slipped from my grip. Dozens of original design sketches scattered across the floor, the white paper spilling over the dark wood like dead leaves.

Three years of loyalty. Three years of trying to be the perfect wife. It was all a complete lie.

I turned and ran. I did not care about the sketches, my ruined reputation, or my coat. I burst out the front doors of the building and into the freezing rainstorm.

The downpour poured over me, soaking my clothes in seconds. My chest burned with sharp, stabbing pains. I couldn't draw enough air into my lungs.

My shoe caught the edge of a wet sidewalk curb.

I hit the concrete hard, a blinding agony ripping through my lower abdomen before the dark street faded into absolute blackness.

When my eyes opened, harsh fluorescent lights burned into my vision.

"Mrs. Crawford?" a voice asked nearby.

I turned my head on the stiff pillow. A doctor in a white coat stood beside my hospital bed, holding a metal clipboard.

"Where am I?" I croaked, my throat feeling like sandpaper.

"You are in the emergency recovery ward at St. Jude Hospital," the doctor said softly. "A pedestrian called an ambulance after you collapsed in the rain."

I tried to sit up, but a dull, throbbing cramp in my lower stomach forced me back down against the mattress. "Why does my stomach hurt so much?"

The doctor lowered his clipboard, his face filled with pity. "You suffered severe physical trauma and extreme emotional shock, Mrs. Crawford. I am so sorry. We could not save the pregnancy."

The room spun around me. "What did you just say?"

"You were five weeks pregnant," he explained gently. "You suffered a miscarriage during the fall."

A baby. I was going to be a mother.

I pressed my hands against my flat stomach, hot tears spilling over my eyelids and soaking into the hospital sheet. My child was gone before I even knew it existed.

The doctor sighed, offering a sad nod before stepping out of the room.

Footsteps approached the open doorway of my ward a moment later.

I froze, holding my breath as two familiar shadows fell across the linoleum floor outside.

"Did you know Jessica had a miscarriage, Harvey?" Nancy’s voice floated into the room, sounding painfully sweet and artificial. "That is so sad. Poor thing."

I stared at the ceiling tile, waiting for my husband to rush through the door, waiting for him to show a single shred of human grief for our lost child.

"It does not matter that she lost the baby," Harvey replied from the hallway, his tone completely flat and icy. "We will have our own children soon anyway."

My heart did not break. It turned to stone.

I wiped the wet tears from my cheeks, the last trace of my love for Harvey Crawford evaporating into nothing.

Out in the main hospital corridor, thirty feet away from my door, a tall man in a dark charcoal suit stood watching my room. His posture was rigid, commanding an undeniable aura of absolute power.

"Mr. Oscar, that is her," a young secretary whispered, stepping up behind the powerful stranger. "That is Jessica."