The Billionaire's Pregnant Wife Returns

Timothy froze. His fingers went slack against my bruised skin. He raised a hand to block the piercing glare of the high-beam headlights, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pierce the gloom of the tinted rear window.

"Who the hell are you?" Timothy demanded.

His voice cracked slightly under the sudden pressure of the stranger's tone. The window hummed, lowering just an inch further. No answer came from the dark interior. Only the low, vibrating purr of the massive engine filled the silence. The air in the garage felt heavy, thick with an unspoken threat that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I seized the gap in his attention. I ripped my arm from his loosened grip, the friction burning my skin.

"Get back here, Naomi," he snapped, reaching for me again.

I stepped backward, putting myself safely beside the heavy, polished door of the Rolls-Royce. The metal felt cool against my back, a solid wall between me and the man who had ruined my twenties.

"Did you not hear him?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "He told you to take your hands off me."

Timothy scoffed. He dropped his hand, adjusting his tailored cuffs with a sharp tug. His gaze flicked from me to the massive vehicle, then back to my face. A sneer twisted his lips.

"Your wife?" Timothy repeated the stranger's word, spitting it onto the concrete. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"It is a fact."

"You are lying." He took a step toward the car. "You think I don't know your financial situation? You think I don't know exactly what happened after I left?"

"You know nothing."

"I know you were dependent on the Gibson family," he countered. "You had no money. You had no connections. You expect me to believe some billionaire swooped in to rescue you?"

"I do not need you to believe anything." I leaned slightly against the car door. "But since you are so obsessed with the past, let me clarify the timeline for you."

Timothy crossed his arms. "Go ahead. Spin your little fairy tale."

"Seven years ago, you threw the divorce papers at my feet." I watched his eyes track my movements as I smoothed the front of my silk blouse. "You forged my signature. You left me in the rain. You were so eager to move Esther into the master bedroom, you didn't even wait for the ink to dry."

"I did what had to be done. The Gibson family needed a proper heir, and you were failing."

"And so did I." I met his stare head-on. "The very next day, I married him."

Timothy barked a laugh. "The next day? You really expect me to buy this garbage? You were a weeping mess on the driveway."

"Tears dry quickly when you realize what you actually lost," I said. "Which was nothing but a coward."

His jaw clenched. "Watch your tone."

"My new husband did not ask me to beg in the mud," I continued, letting the words strike him like stones. "He did not hide me from his family. He did not threaten to bankrupt my father. Instead, he gave me a bride price."

Timothy rolled his eyes. "A bride price. How archaic. What did he give you? A new purse? A leased condo?"

"Fifty million dollars."

The number echoed off the concrete walls.

Timothy stopped breathing for a fraction of a second. His arms dropped to his sides. He stared at me, his eyes wide, processing the figure.

Then, his face flushed a violent, mottled red.

"Fifty million," he repeated, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper.

"Transferred directly into my personal account," I confirmed. "Before the marriage certificate was even stamped."

"You are insane." He pointed a shaking finger at me. "You are delusional."

"You can check the banking records yourself. Oh, wait. You do not have the clearance."

"There is no fifty million dollars!" Timothy yelled, his voice echoing loudly. "Your family's company is drowning in debt right now! If you had that kind of money, your father wouldn't be begging the banks for an extension."

"My husband's money is mine. My father's company is his own problem."

"Liar!" Timothy closed the distance between us, stopping just outside the reach of the headlights. "This is a setup. You hired this car. You paid some street thug to sit in the back and play the tough guy."

"You think I rented a custom Rolls-Royce?"

"I think you are desperate!" he shouted. "You knew I was coming. You knew my grandfather was dying. You orchestrated this entire theater to drive up your price."

"I did not know you were in the country until ten minutes ago."

"You want me to beg," Timothy sneered, his confidence returning in an ugly, twisted wave. "You want to punish me for Esther. So you invent a phantom husband. You invent a phantom pregnancy. You invent fifty million dollars."

"Your arrogance is genuinely a medical condition."

"I am calling your bluff right now."

Timothy marched forward. The heavy soles of his leather shoes smacked against the pavement. He bypassed me, his eyes fixed on the tinted window of the Rolls-Royce.

"Let's see this imaginary billionaire," Timothy taunted.

"Step back, Timothy," I warned.

"Why? Are you afraid I will expose your little actor?"

He reached the rear passenger door. He raised his hand, his fingers curling aggressively toward the polished chrome handle.

"Hey, buddy," Timothy called out to the dark glass. "Show is over. Get out of the car."

His fingertips brushed the cold metal.

Two towering figures materialized from the shadows behind the concrete pillar.

They moved in absolute silence. Dressed in identical black suits, they crossed the space in a blur of motion.

Before Timothy could pull the handle, heavy hands clamped down on both his shoulders.