Wrong Bed:My Fiance Became My Nephew

"Miss Chloe Beaumont agrees..."

The lawyer's voice droned on, each word a hammer blow against the glass walls of the conference room. Outside, the New York skyline glittered, a monument to a world Chloe was being sold to.

Her sister Seraphina's hand tightened around hers. It was cold. Clammy.

"Chloe, breathe," Seraphina whispered.

But the air in the room was too thick, heavy with the scent of expensive leather and defeat.

At the massive mahogany table, a grim-faced man sat in stillness.

A decade ago, he had buried his real name to shield the Carlisle empire from the enemies his father had made. To the outside world, he was acting patriarch—Nathaniel Sterling.

But in this room, there was no need for the mask. Here, he was the ruler of the Carlisle empire—Julian Carlisle.

The only sound from Julian was the soft, rhythmic tap of his knuckle against the wood.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was the sound of a countdown. The sound of her freedom ending.

Chloe's gaze swept across the faces of her family elders. Blank. Resigned. They were selling a daughter into marriage to save a shipping empire on the brink of collapse.

Her eyes landed back on Julian. The man orchestrating it all. His ice-blue eyes were fixed on the documents, his expression unreadable.

The lawyer's voice reached the final clause. "...agrees to the union with Mr. Derek Carlisle."

The name hung in the air. Derek Carlisle—Julian's nephew, the sole heir to the Carlisle fortune.

Chloe stood up. The chair scraped harshly against the floor.

"Chloe, don't," Seraphina pleaded, tugging at her arm.

She shook her sister off. Her hand dove into her Birkin bag and pulled out a manila envelope.

She slapped it onto the table. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

A single sheet of paper slid out. A gynecologist's report. Forged, but they didn't know that.

Every eye in the room locked onto it.

Chloe lifted her chin, her voice trembling but clear. "I can't marry Derek Carlisle."

She paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow.

"Because I'm pregnant. And the baby isn't his."

Seraphina gasped, her face draining of all color. The family elders turned their fury on Chloe, their expressions pure and unadulterated rage. The disgrace was a physical thing in the room.

The tapping stopped.

Julian slowly raised his head. He didn't glance at the report. His gaze, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, landed directly on Chloe's face. He was studying her, not with anger, but with a chilling, analytical calm.

Chloe felt a tremor of fear. She instinctively touched the tip of her nose, a nervous habit she couldn't break when she lied. She forced herself to meet his stare.

The silence lasted ten seconds. Twenty. It felt like an eternity.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Dr. Evans is the finest OB/GYN in New York. He also happens to be the Carlisle family physician."

He leaned forward slightly, the movement predatory. "We can arrange for an examination. Right now. With the most advanced equipment, to ensure there is absolutely no mistake."

The blood drained from Chloe's face. Her bluff hadn't just been called; it had been obliterated.

He picked up a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen. The cap clicked off with a sound of finality. He signed his name—Julian Carlisle—with a fluid, unforgiving stroke.

He slid the document across the table toward her.

"Your little games are over," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper that was more terrifying than a shout. "Sign it."

There was no anger in his eyes. Only absolute, unshakable control.

"Mr. Carlisle," Seraphina began, her voice hoarse. "She's just a child..."

"Miss Beaumont," Julian cut her off without looking at her. "Managing your sister is your responsibility."

The casual dismissal, the public rebuke of her sister for her sake, sent a wave of humiliation through Chloe.

Tears blurred her vision. She snatched the pen. Her hand shook so violently the signature was a near-illegible scrawl. A single tear fell, smudging the ink.

Julian glanced at the signature, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table.

He walked to the door, then paused, his back still to them.

"The wedding is next weekend. I expect no further surprises."

Then he was gone.