The Ruined Heiress's Fake Pregnancy Bargain

The morning sun cut through the silk curtains, a blade of light across Clare Beaumont's face.

A sharp, pounding headache was the first thing she registered. The second was the stale scent of champagne and expensive perfume clinging to the air in her Upper East Side apartment. A party. There had been a party.

She reached for her phone on the bedside table, but a shrill, insistent ringing beat her to it. The screen lit up with a name that made her stomach clench with a familiar mix of affection and duty: Mrs. Sullivan. Her family's housekeeper since before Clare was born.

Clare swiped to answer, her voice thick with sleep. "Sullivan, it's barely dawn."

"Miss Clare! Something's happened!" The woman's voice was tight with panic, laced with tears. "The bank just called. They said all our accounts have been frozen!"

The fog of Clare's hangover vanished.

She sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. Her heart gave a hard, painful thud against her ribs.

"It must be a mistake," she said, her own voice sounding distant and unconvincing. She tried to soothe the older woman while her fingers flew across her phone screen, opening her banking app.

It wasn't a mistake.

The screen glowed with stark, red warnings. "ACCOUNT FROZEN." "INSUFFICIENT FUNDS." She tried her Centurion card app. Declined.

A cold dread, slick and oily, began to creep up her spine.

She immediately dialed her father, Arthur Beaumont. The call went straight to voicemail.

"Dad, call me back. Immediately."

She tried again. Voicemail.

The dread turned into a sharp, stabbing fear. She threw the covers off and ran from the bedroom, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor.

The study was empty.

But on the polished surface of her father's mahogany desk sat a single, crisp piece of stationery. It was his handwriting.

"Clarry, my darling girl, forgive me."

Clare's breath caught in her throat. She recognized the paper. It was from his private stock, the kind he only kept in his office on the top floor of the Beaumont Group building. A terrible, sickening thought clawed its way into her mind.

She raced back to the bedroom, grabbing a coat and her car keys, not even bothering to change out of the silk slip she'd worn to bed. An image flashed in her mind: her father, years ago, taking her to the rooftop of that building to see the stars. This is my kingdom, Clarry, he had said, his voice full of pride.

She ran to the garage and jumped into her Porsche. The engine sputtered once, then died. The dashboard lit up with a fuel warning.

Her credit cards were useless.

She slammed her fist against the steering wheel, a raw, frustrated sound tearing from her throat. Abandoning the car, she ran out onto the street, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to flag down a taxi.

One cab slowed, then sped up as the driver took in her wild eyes and state of undress. Another did the same.

Finally, a yellow cab screeched to a halt. The driver eyed her suspiciously.

"Beaumont Tower," she gasped, her voice trembling as she scrambled into the back seat. "And hurry."

The city blurred past the window. She kept calling her father's number, each unanswered call a hammer blow to her heart, chipping away at the fragile shell of her hope.

The taxi pulled up in front of the gleaming skyscraper. Clare fumbled in her coat pockets, then remembered. No cash. No phone payment. Nothing.

"I have to get money from upstairs," she said to the driver, her voice laced with a humiliation that burned her cheeks. "Please, just wait a minute."

The driver gave her a look of pure contempt, the kind reserved for liars and thieves.

She didn't wait for his reply. She bolted from the car and ran into the lobby. A security guard moved to intercept her.

"Ma'am, you can't—"

She shoved past him, her desperation giving her a strength she didn't know she possessed. She ran to the executive elevator, the one that required a fingerprint scan. Her thumb pressed against the cool glass. It beeped green. Thank God.

As the elevator ascended, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls. A pale, wild-eyed stranger stared back at her.

The doors opened to the top floor. The door to the rooftop was slightly ajar, a mournful wind whistling through the gap.

She pushed it open and saw him.

Her father, Arthur Beaumont, stood on the narrow ledge at the very edge of the roof, the wind whipping his graying hair around his face.

"Dad!" she screamed, a sound of pure animal terror. She sprinted toward him.

He turned at the sound of her voice. His face was a mask of utter despair, but there was a strange look of relief in his eyes, too. "Clarry, don't come any closer. It's over."

"No! It's not over! We can start again!" she cried, inching forward, her hands outstretched as if to physically pull him back with her words.

She talked about anything, everything, painting a future that didn't exist, her voice cracking with unshed tears. She saw the tension in his shoulders ease, just slightly.

In that single moment of hesitation, she lunged.

She tackled him, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him back from the edge. They crashed to the hard concrete together.

Arthur clung to her, his body shaking with great, heaving sobs. He confessed everything—the bankruptcy, the crushing debt, the shame of his failure.

Clare held him tight, whispering that it was okay, that as long as they had each other, they had hope. But inside, she felt nothing but a cold, terrifying emptiness.

After she calmed him, she helped him downstairs. They stood on the empty street, the morning rush hour just beginning around them. She had saved his life, but she didn't have a single dollar to get her broken father home.

The full weight of their ruin crashed down on her. The shame was a physical thing, a heavy cloak that threatened to suffocate her.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided past, its tinted window reflecting her own pathetic, disheveled image.

And in that instant, a wild, desperate idea took root in her mind. She remembered a man from a yacht party weeks ago. A man who moved with the cold certainty of a king, his name a whisper of power on Wall Street: Edward Carlisle.

He was the only person she could think of who could solve a problem of this magnitude. But a man like that didn't respond to pleas for help. He responded to leverage.

She needed a bargaining chip he couldn't ignore. Something that tied directly to his most vital interests—his family, his power, his legacy.

Her hand drifted down, resting on her flat stomach. A plan, born of pure desperation, bloomed in the darkness.

She whispered the words into the cold morning air, a vow only she could hear.

"I'm pregnant."