Pregnant And Fleeing The Ruthless Billionaire

The resolve that had crystallized in the cold light of the penthouse bedroom followed Jodi to her office at Taylor Corp. The tears of the previous night had dried, leaving behind only a layer of cold, hard ice in her heart. It was a quiet, lifeless space, situated on a floor far removed from the roar of the trading floor-a custom-made cage with a view. Her title was "Special Projects Coordinator," a string of meaningless words designed to justify her presence in the building without granting her access to anything of consequence.

She did not glance at the fresh copy of The Wall Street Journal that her assistant had placed on her desk. She already knew what the business-page headline contained.

Instead, she opened her laptop. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, navigating through encrypted folders until she found a file dated five years and three days earlier.

Agreement.pdf

It ran over a hundred pages, a labyrinth of legal jargon drafted by Armand's most ruthless attorneys. Every clause was a carefully engineered brick in the construction of her gilded cage.

She scrolled past the definitions, the obligations, the nondisclosure provisions that had governed every minute of her life. Her target was Section 9.

Termination Clause.

The clause stipulated that either party could request termination with thirty days' written notice. But the fine print was a nest of vipers. As the requesting party, any termination request she initiated would trigger an immediate and invasive review. All assets provided to her under the agreement-including yesterday's money and the apartment-would be frozen until Armand personally signed off that she had violated none of the hundreds of confidentiality provisions.

A small, mirthless smile played on Jodi's lips. He had thought of everything. This was not an agreement; it was a deed of ownership.

She opened a new document.

Subject: Request for Termination of Agreement

She wrote with lawyerly detachment. No emotion. No accusations. She simply cited Section 9, Subsection 2, and formally stated her intention. Cold, professional, and irrevocable.

She encrypted the document and attached it to an email addressed to Armand's lead counsel, copying his executive assistant, Grant Fletcher.

The moment she clicked "Send," a weight she had never realized she was carrying lifted from her shoulders. It was the first breath of free air she had taken in five years.

A sharp knock shattered the silence. Grant Fletcher walked in, his face a mask of professional concern. He was a tall man, his loyalty to Armand fitting as snugly as a bespoke suit.

He placed a print copy of The Wall Street Journal on her desk, right beside her keyboard. The photo was clearer than what she had seen online. Armand was sliding a diamond the size of a small iceberg onto the finger of a woman named Isabella de Valois. The expression on his face was one of soft, focused adoration. It was an expression he had never given Jodi.

Jodi stared at the photograph for a full three seconds, her heart lurching with a dull ache. Then she looked away.

"I've seen it, Grant." Her voice was calm. Too calm.

Grant was taken aback by her lack of reaction. He had clearly expected tears, or a tantrum. "Jodi, Mr. Taylor wanted me to assure you that this... development... does not change the terms of your agreement."

A smile flickered across her lips, so faint and cold it was barely perceptible. "It will. Because I've changed my mind." She gestured to her screen. "You should have my termination request in your inbox."

Grant went pale. "You can't. The agreement-"

"The agreement gives me the right to request," she interrupted, her tone polite but firm. It was a voice he had never heard from her before. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a transition memo to prepare."

He stared at her, his composure shaken. This was not the docile, quiet woman he had been accustomed to dealing with. He turned and left without another word.

Jodi began organizing her files, preparing to document the nonessential projects she had overseen. She would leave no loose ends, no excuse for Armand to claim she had been negligent.

Her phone rang. An unknown number.

She hesitated, then answered. "Jodi Holden."

"Ms. Holden. Sterling Hale-Prescott." The voice was smooth, carrying the easy confidence of old money and the traces of an Ivy League education. "A friend of Armand's. I thought we should have a chat."

Sterling Hale-Prescott. Heir to one of New York's oldest banking dynasties. A member of Armand's inner circle.

Jodi's spine stiffened. This was not a friendly call. It was a deployment. Armand was sending one of his lieutenants to handle the problem.

"I'm rather busy, Mr. Prescott," she said, her voice icy.

A low chuckle came through the line. "Come now, Jodi. It's just an engagement, not a vow of celibacy. No need to throw a tantrum. He'll make it up to you."

The condescension in his tone was so visceral it crawled across her skin like a slick film. They all saw her the same way. A petulant child, a line item on a budget sheet, a problem to be solved with money and patronizing words.

A flame she had thought extinguished years ago roared to life in her chest.