Pregnant With The Ruthless Billionaire's Secret

Aubree Hamilton was the top-tier executive assistant to Wall Street's most ruthless titan, Beck Franco. A month ago, she made a catastrophic mistake and spent the night in his bed. Thinking she had erased the mistake with a morning-after pill, she panicked upon his return and lied about being engaged to push him away. But Beck, a man who despised disloyalty above all else, immediately suspended her and ordered her escorted out of the building. Her nightmare only escalated when her toxic ex-boyfriend attacked her on the street, tearing her purse open and exposing the empty morning-after pill box to the public—and to Beck, who was watching from his penthouse. After having his security rescue her, Beck trapped her in his car, ruthlessly tearing apart her fake engagement. Later in her apartment, the suffocating tension between them almost ignited into a kiss, but a violent wave of nausea suddenly hit Aubree. She shoved him away with all her strength and violently threw up in the bathroom. Beck took it as the ultimate physical disgust. He walked out, deeply humiliated and dangerously obsessed, unleashing his resources to investigate her every move. Left alone and trembling, Aubree finally checked the crushed white box. The pill she took had expired a month ago. Staring at the two bright pink lines on the pregnancy test, she made a desperate vow: Beck Franco could never know she was carrying his child, and she had to disappear before he found out.

Chapters

Chapter 6

The door of the Maybach closed with a soft, heavy thud, sealing her inside. The chaotic sounds of New York City vanished, replaced by a silence so complete it was suffocating.

Beck was sitting in the seat opposite her, his long legs crossed, his suit jacket unbuttoned. He didn't speak. He just watched her, his gray eyes as sharp and dissecting as a surgeon's scalpel.

Aubree couldn't meet his gaze. She stared at her own reflection in the darkened window, a pale, disheveled stranger. Her hands were twisted together in her lap, her knuckles white.

The car pulled smoothly into traffic. The silence stretched, each second a new turn of the screw.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Thank you, sir," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "For what Alex did..."

He cut her off, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Was that man your 'fiancé'?"

The question landed like a punch to the gut. The interrogation had begun.

"No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "No, he's my ex-boyfriend."

A flicker of something-amusement? Contempt?-crossed his face. "Oh? And where was your fiancé while you were being assaulted on a public street?"

Her mind was a blank slate of panic. She grasped for a name, any name. "He's... he's out of the country. On business."

Beck leaned forward slightly, the pressure in the small space intensifying. "Is that so? What's his name?"

Aubree's throat went dry. She couldn't say Julian's name; it was too easily disproven. She needed a wall, not another lie he could tear down. She bit her lip, her chin lifting in a flicker of defiance. "With all due respect, sir, I don't believe my personal life is relevant to my employment, which, as I understand it, is currently suspended." She tried to use professional boundaries as a shield, though her voice trembled on the last word.

The instant the words left her lips, she wanted to die. It was a foolish, desperate gambit.

A knowing, dangerous glint appeared in Beck's eyes. Her refusal was more telling than any lie.

He didn't call her on it. Not directly. He changed tactics, his voice silky and sharp. "Interesting. And the box, Miss Hamilton? The one your ex-boyfriend seemed so upset about?"

He stared directly into her eyes. "Why would a woman with a fiancé need a morning-after pill?"

It was a checkmate. A perfect, inescapable trap. Every possible answer was a lie that would only dig her deeper.

"I... it was..." she stammered, the words dying in her throat.

He watched her flounder for a moment longer, then he lost his patience. He leaned back, his face a mask of cold certainty.

"You're not wearing an engagement ring," he began, ticking off the points like a prosecutor in his closing argument. "You refuse to name your supposed fiancé. And a woman in a committed relationship does not typically carry emergency contraception in her purse."

He paused, letting the weight of his logic crush her. Then, the final blow.

"There is no fiancé. Is there?"

Her defenses crumbled. A hot, shameful wave of humiliation washed over her, and tears welled in her eyes. She felt stripped bare, a fool exposed in front of the one person she couldn't afford to look weak in front of.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just bit her lip and turned her head to stare blindly out the window.

Her silence was his confirmation.

He had his answer, but it only seemed to make him more agitated. Why lie? Why go to such lengths to push him away? The rejection, so blatant and desperate, sparked something in him-a possessive, unfamiliar curiosity that he found deeply unsettling.

The car stopped at a red light.

The suffocating atmosphere, the weight of his gaze, the sting of her humiliation-it was too much. In a single, fluid motion, Aubree lunged for the door handle, threw it open, and scrambled out of the car.

She plunged into the stream of pedestrians crossing the street, not looking back.

"Sir?" the driver asked, startled. "Should we go after her?"

Beck watched her small, retreating figure disappear into the Manhattan crowd. A dark, predatory light glinted in his eyes.

"Follow her," he commanded, his voice a low, determined growl.

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