Divorcing The CEO To Save My Baby

Emma saw the black Maybach parked at the corner of Park Avenue, with Denton's usual driver, Robert, sitting behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the clinic's entrance. A cold certainty washed over her: she was being watched. Instead of walking toward the car, she turned her collar up against the freezing wind and walked three blocks to the subway station.

She swiped her MTA card and descended into the loud, crowded underground platform.

The train roared into the station. She pushed her way into the dense crowd of commuters, ensuring any eyes Denton had on her were completely lost in the rush hour chaos.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the subway in Tribeca. She walked the remaining two blocks to the Chaney family's penthouse.

She pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner on the private elevator. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the top floor.

The main lights in the penthouse were off. The only illumination came from the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Emma hung her coat in the foyer. The moment she turned around, the heavy, pungent smell of Scotch whiskey and cigar smoke hit her face.

She froze. Denton Chaney sat submerged in the deep shadows of the leather armchair in the living room.

He swirled the crystal glass in his hand. The ice cubes clinked sharply against the rim.

He didn't look up. "Where were you this afternoon?" His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

Emma's heart slammed against her ribs. Her hand instinctively moved to cover her lower stomach.

She forced her breathing to slow down. "I went to Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue. I was looking for an anniversary gift."

Denton let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He tossed a stack of printed credit card receipts onto the glass coffee table.

The papers scattered. There were no transactions from today.

Denton stood up. His six-foot-three frame instantly sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

He closed the distance between them in three strides. His large hand shot out, his fingers gripping her jaw roughly, forcing her face up.

His eyes were pitch black, swimming with pure disgust. "Still playing these pathetic, lying games, Emma?"

His grip tightened, his thumb pressing painfully into her cheekbone. "You think I forgot the yacht? You think I forgot how you bullied Beverly out of the picture just to steal the Chaney name?"

Emma's eyes watered from the pain in her jaw. "I didn't hurt my sister, Denton. I didn't." Her voice was a weak, desperate whisper.

Denton didn't listen. He shoved her face away, his disgust palpable. He threw the remaining whiskey in his glass onto the expensive Persian rug.

"Don't think our anniversary gives you any leverage. This marriage is a contract, and your position in it is temporary," he spat out, every word dripping with venom. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Whatever pathetic scheme you're cooking up to secure your place here, it won't work. I will never let a vicious, manipulative bitch like you stay in this house permanently."

The words acted like a physical blade plunging straight into Emma's chest. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the rug.

The ultrasound photo in her coat pocket suddenly felt like it was burning a hole through her skin.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She forced the tears back, lowering her head. "I understand."

Her sudden submission seemed to irritate him more. Denton ripped his tie loose, turned on his heel, and walked toward his study.

The heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening crack.

Emma's knees gave out. She slid down the cold wall, hitting the floor hard.

She wrapped both arms tightly around her stomach, curling into a tight ball. In the pitch-black hallway, she wept silently.

This was why she could never tell him. He would weaponize this child the same way he weaponized everything else in her life. He would call it manipulation. He would call it a trap. And then he would find a way to take it from her—or worse, to make her wish it had never existed.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The ultrasound photo pressed against her chest, a fragile secret tucked over her heart.

"I won't let him hurt you," she whispered into the darkness, her voice so low only the baby could have heard it—if the baby could hear anything at all. "I swear to God, I won't let him touch you."

Her mind was completely made up. She would take this secret to her grave.