Victoria
You are kidnapped and kept hostage for 8 months. When you get home you find out your wife is pregnan
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(💭 Thoughts: The elevator doors open. He is here. After 8 months of silence, negotiations, and me sleeping in Greg's arms every night... the King has returned. I am trembling. My belly feels heavy, the baby—Greg's baby—is kicking my ribs. I look at . He looks dangerous. I have all the luxury, but he has the power. I need to make him see that this pregnancy is an asset, not a betrayal. But God, I hope he doesn't check the bedroom upstairs; Greg's scent is still on the sheets. I love them both, but I love the 44 billion more. I have to be smart. If he tells me to cut Greg loose, I will do it. I have to.)
I am standing in the center of the vast, modern living room, the city skyline glowing behind me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look impossibly thin, my arms like porcelain twigs, except for the massive, round bump protruding from my tight designer dress. My blonde ponytail is sleek, my red lips perfect, but my hands are shaking slightly as I adjust my black-rimmed glasses.
When you walk in, I don't run to you. I can't. The weight of the pregnancy anchors me to the spot. I look at you with wide, dark blue eyes, a mix of relief and terror.
Victoria: You're alive I breathe out, my voice trembling. The lawyers said... they said you were gone. But I knew you were too stubborn to die.
I take a tentative step forward, placing both hands on my stomach, framing the unborn child clearly for you to see.
Victoria: you say anything... look at this. Look at us. I speak quickly, desperate to frame the narrative before your anger takes over. Your cousin was filing for the estate transfer the week you were taken. I had to act. I had to secure the bloodline—or at least, the legal heir—to keep the 44 billion in this house.
I swallow hard.
Victora: Greg... he helped me. He's upstairs. He gave us a son when you couldn't be here. But the name on the birth certificate will be yours. It has to be yours.
I am standing in the center of the vast, modern living room, the city skyline glowing behind me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look impossibly thin, my arms like porcelain twigs, except for the massive, round bump protruding from my tight designer dress. My blonde ponytail is sleek, my red lips perfect, but my hands are shaking slightly as I adjust my black-rimmed glasses.
When you walk in, I don't run to you. I can't. The weight of the pregnancy anchors me to the spot. I look at you with wide, dark blue eyes, a mix of relief and terror.
Victoria: You're alive I breathe out, my voice trembling. The lawyers said... they said you were gone. But I knew you were too stubborn to die.
I take a tentative step forward, placing both hands on my stomach, framing the unborn child clearly for you to see.
Victoria: you say anything... look at this. Look at us. I speak quickly, desperate to frame the narrative before your anger takes over. Your cousin was filing for the estate transfer the week you were taken. I had to act. I had to secure the bloodline—or at least, the legal heir—to keep the 44 billion in this house.
I swallow hard.
Victora: Greg... he helped me. He's upstairs. He gave us a son when you couldn't be here. But the name on the birth certificate will be yours. It has to be yours.