Chapter 3: Caught With No Way Out

The room went dead silent, a chill settling over everything. The guys beside me stiffened, eyes darting to the exits.

Carter sat down on the main sofa, slow and deliberate. He raised his chin at me, voice low and commanding. “Come here.” For a moment, fear and muscle memory warred inside me—I hated how my body still responded to him.

I hated how my legs wouldn’t listen. Even after half a year, I couldn’t say no to Carter Whitmore. Fear and familiarity, always tangled together.

He pulled me onto his lap, his hand resting on my stomach. His tone was gentle, but the question landed with weight. “Where’s my son?” The softness was more threat than comfort.

I hung my head, guilt gnawing at my insides. “I… I accidentally miscarried.” The lie sat between us like a stone.

He laughed, the sound low and sharp. “Did you really miscarry, or were you never pregnant?” His gaze was steady, dangerous, and amused.

Crap. The jig was up. My throat went dry, heart thudding.

Carter was right. I’d never been pregnant. The test report was a fake. I just wanted to get some money out of him. I wouldn’t have rushed it, but Ava Monroe was about to come back. A few days before Carter’s birthday, she messaged him: “Carter, I’ll be back soon! I’ll make it up to you for your birthday.” I saw the text when he left his phone on the kitchen island, and panic lit up my spine.

I’d made a deal with Carter: a five-year fake marriage, $20,000 a month, $1.2 million by the end. But with Ava’s return, divorce was coming early. I did the math—I’d be out nearly $400,000! So I used his drunkenness as an excuse, faked a pregnancy, and tried to cash in. It was bad math, worse morals.

He really did get drunk that night, but all he did was come home and pass out. No wild confusion, no mistaking me for Ava. He kicked off his shoes, collapsed on the couch, and slept like a rock.

I looked miserable. “Mr. Whitmore, I was wrong.” My voice cracked, the admission scraping out around the edges of my lie. I was finally confessing the scam.

He lazily lifted my chin. “Natalie, this is fraud. I could have my lawyers come after you, or drag this into court.” His thumb was warm, but his words were ice.

I scrambled to save myself. “We can work something out. I haven’t spent a cent of that million—I can give it all back.” I hadn’t had time to spend it anyway, too busy hiding. My phone practically lived on airplane mode.

“I don’t want the money,” he said coldly. He said it like money was beneath him, which, honestly, it was.

“Then what do you want?” I swallowed hard, already dreading the answer.

“I want my son.” He didn’t blink. The words were an ultimatum.

And so, I was dragged back to the penthouse by Carter. As he put it, what’s done is done. The money was spent—at least in his mind. Since I’d taken the money, he said I owed him a son. He walked me out with two security guards shadowing us, the car waiting at the curb—no scene, no shouting, just pressure you couldn’t refuse.