The Cold CEO's Contract Wife

The world spun around me as I clutched the edge of the bathroom sink. My reflection stared back—pale, with beads of sweat trickling down my temples. I'd been feeling unwell for days, but Adrian hadn't noticed. Why would he? He barely looked at me anymore.

I fumbled for my phone, trying to focus on the screen as I typed a message to James.

"James, I think I need a doctor. I can't stop shaking."

The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering to the tile floor. I tried to bend down to retrieve it, but my legs gave way. The cool tile pressed against my cheek as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

"Emma?" James's voice seemed to come from far away. "Mrs. Cross?"

I tried to respond, but my lips wouldn't form words. The bathroom door rattled as someone tried to open it.

"Emma!" Adrian's voice now, sharp with irritation. "Open the door."

I wanted to tell him I couldn't, that something was wrong, but the words wouldn't come.

The door shook again, harder this time. "Emma, stop this childish behavior right now."

Childish? I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a whimper.

"Mr. Cross," James's voice was urgent. "She's not responding. Perhaps we should—"

"Perhaps we should what? Humor her latest attention-seeking stunt?" Adrian's voice was cold, dismissive.

The door rattled again, then silence. I heard Adrian's footsteps retreating down the hall.

"Sir," James called after him. "I think she's genuinely ill."

"I'm sure she is," Adrian replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just like Sophia's nightmares. Timing is convenient, isn't it?"

The door crashed open, and I flinched at the sound. Adrian stood there, his face a mask of contempt.

"Get up," he commanded. "Sophia needs me. She's having another panic attack."

I tried to push myself up, but my arms trembled and gave out. "Adrian," I whispered. "Please..."

He kicked the doorframe hard, making me flinch. "Stop pretending to be pitiful," he snarled. "I saw you at breakfast. You were fine then."

"Sir," James stepped between us. "Her skin is burning up. Look at her."

Adrian glanced at me, his expression unchanging. "Take care of it," he said to James. "I'm going to the hospital to see Sophia."

He turned and walked away without a backward glance.

"Mrs. Cross," James knelt beside me, his weathered hands gentle as they brushed hair from my face. "Let's get you to the hospital."

---

The hospital lights were too bright, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

"104 degrees," a nurse murmured. "We need to get this down quickly."

Ice packs on my forehead. Cool cloths on my wrists. The prick of an IV needle.

"Mrs. Cross?" A doctor's face swam into view. "Can you hear me?"

I nodded weakly.

"You're severely dehydrated and showing signs of infection." He checked my chart. "When was your last menstrual period?"

The question caught me off guard. "I... I'm not sure. It's been... irregular."

His expression changed subtly. "We need to run some additional tests."

Hours later, I sat on the edge of a hospital bed, staring at the plastic stick in my hand. Two pink lines. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

Joy bloomed in my chest, bright and fragile. A baby. Adrian's baby.

"Mrs. Cross?" A nurse appeared in the doorway. "The doctor would like to see you."

I clutched the test stick like a lifeline as I followed her back to the examination room.

"Mrs. Cross," the doctor's expression was grave. "I'm afraid you're experiencing some complications."

The room seemed to tilt around me. "What kind of complications?"

"You're spotting," he said gently. "And your hormone levels indicate a potential miscarriage."

"No," I whispered. "No, that can't be right."

But deep down, I knew. The cramping pain in my abdomen, the blood I'd seen when I went to the bathroom.

"Is my husband here?" I asked, suddenly desperate for Adrian.

"We've been trying to reach him," the nurse said. "But his phone goes straight to voicemail."

Of course it did. He was with Sophia.

"Mrs. Cross," the doctor continued. "We need to perform a procedure to complete the miscarriage. The tissue is already detaching."

The words washed over me like cold water. Tissue. Detaching. My baby.

"Will I need to sign something?" My voice sounded distant, belonging to someone else.

"Yes," he nodded. "Consent forms."

A clipboard appeared before me. I stared at the papers, the words blurring through my tears.

"And my husband?" I asked again. "You'll keep trying to reach him?"

"Of course," the doctor assured me. "But we shouldn't delay. The longer we wait..."

I took the pen with trembling fingers and signed my name.

Emma Cross.

Not Mrs. Adrian Cross.

Just Emma.

---

The house was quiet when I returned three days later. James had driven me home, his eyes filled with a pity I couldn't bear to see.

"Thank you, James," I said softly as he helped me inside.

"Should I tell Mr. Cross you're back?" he asked.

I shook my head. "He's busy with Sophia."

James nodded, understanding in his eyes. "You should rest, Mrs. Cross."

I climbed the stairs slowly, each step an effort. My body felt hollow, emptied out. The doctor had explained what happened—something about my hormone levels being too low, my body rejecting the pregnancy.

I curled up on my bed, pulling the covers around me despite the warmth of the evening. Sleep came fitfully, dreams of tiny fingers and toes slipping away from me.

I woke to voices downstairs. Adrian's deep timbre and Sophia's light, musical laugh.

"I thought a weekend at the lake house might help you recover," Adrian was saying as I descended the stairs. "The fresh air, the quiet..."

"You're so thoughtful," Sophia replied. "Just what I need after that nightmare."

I stood in the doorway, watching them plan their escape while I stood there, a ghost in my own home.

Adrian glanced up, finally noticing me. "You're back," he said flatly.

"Yes," I replied.

He turned back to Sophia without another word.

---

The dining room at the Cross estate gleamed with old money and older pretensions. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over the mahogany table where Adrian's parents sat like royalty holding court.

"Emma," Mrs. Cross—Victoria—looked me over with thinly veiled disapproval. "You look... tired."

"I've been unwell," I said quietly.

"Adrian mentioned you had some kind of episode," Mr. Cross interjected. "Nothing serious, I hope."

Before I could answer, Victoria cut in. "Adrian tells us you come from quite the... common background."

I set my fork down carefully. "My aunt raised me after my parents died. She worked hard to give me a good education."

"How... quaint," Victoria's smile didn't reach her eyes. "And what did you study?"

"Art history," I replied. "With a minor in literature."

"Adrian needs someone who understands business, not... pictures and books," she said dismissively.

I glanced at Adrian, waiting for him to defend me—or at least acknowledge my presence. He sat silently, pushing food around his plate.

"Mother," he finally said. "Let's not bore Emma with business talk."

Victoria's eyebrows rose slightly. "I'm merely trying to determine if she's suitable for you, darling."

"Suitable?" I echoed softly.

"Well," Victoria dabbed her lips with a napkin. "You're not from our world, dear. We need to ensure you understand what's expected of a Cross."

I looked around the table—at Mr. Cross's cold eyes, Victoria's calculating smile, Adrian's deliberate silence.

"What is expected," I asked, "of someone who's just a placeholder?"