I'm Pregnant, And It Isn't My Husband's

That same night, Sebastian's driver picked Olivia up. Her stomach was in knots the whole ride over. She remembered her father who didn't give a damn but made merry with some of his business colleagues. It was obvious, he's always seen her as his ill luck-the bad omen that's snatched his beautiful wife away from him while giving birth to her.

"Penthouse," the driver said, punching the button before disappearing.

This is temporary, she told herself. Just until I find a way out.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Sebastian Blackwood waiting for her.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwood," he said, like he was announcing a death sentence.

His penthouse was exactly what you'd expect-the kind of place that screamed "compensating for something." Two floors at the top of Blackwood Tower, that glass phallus stabbing the Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing off Central Park like he owned that too. Everything was monochromatic luxury-white marble, black leather, chrome accents, not a speck of dust or hint of disorder.

"Your things have been disposed of," he announced, leading her through the vast open-concept living space. Olivia stopped short.

Olivia stopped dead. "Disposed of? You threw away my stuff?" The rage she'd been swallowing since morning burned up her throat.

Sebastian turned, eyebrow raised in that way that made me want to slap him. "Not all. Your books remain, after being... evaluated for... appropriateness. Everything else has been replaced."

"You had no right-"

"I had every right." He stepped closer, not touching but making sure she felt him there, forcing her to look up. "The contract you signed was quite specific about your transformation into a suitable Blackwood bride. Did you think that merely meant a ring and a new last name?"

That's when it hit Olivia like a subway at rush hour-she'd massively underestimated what she'd signed away. Not just my body or my name. It wasn't just her body or her name-it was her fucking entire identity.

"Your new wardrobe is in your closet. Marissa will help you learn what's appropriate for different occasions." He gestured to a sleek, ash-blonde woman who materialized from another room. "She'll be your personal stylist, though I've already approved all selections."

"And if I don't like your... selections?" Olivia challenged, refusing to acknowledge Marissa.

Sebastian's eyes went cold. "Then you'll learn to. Section 12, paragraph 4: 'The wife's public appearance will at all times reflect the standards established by the husband.'"

Of course he'd memorized it. Probably got hard reciting contract clauses while other men watched sports.

"Marissa isn't your only staff member," Sebastian continued, walking again, forcing Olivia to follow or be left standing foolishly alone. "You'll meet Richards, our chef; Elena, the housekeeper; and Marcus, my personal assistant, who will coordinate your schedule with mine when joint appearances are required."

"Joint appearances," she echoed hollowly. "Like a performing seal."

Sebastian stopped at a sleek black door. "More like a valuable acquisition requiring strategic display." He pushed it open. "Your bedroom."

Olivia stepped past him, her breath catching despite herself. The space was beautiful-airy, those same massive windows, a huge bed with creamy linens, elegant minimal furniture. Like living in an Instagram post.

"My bedroom is through there." Sebastian pointed to another door at the far side of the room. "I expect it to remain accessible at all times."

Her momentary appreciation for the aesthetics evaporated instantly. "Of course you do."

"Your attitude suggests you've forgotten our arrangement." His voice dropped, danger in every syllable. "Should I remind you what happens if you fail to uphold your end of our contract?"

Images of her father in prison orange flashed before her eyes. Olivia swallowed her retort.

"No."

"No, what?" Sebastian stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne.

She forced the words out. "No... Sebastian."

He studied her like she was a lab rat. "We'll work on that." His phone buzzed. He checked it, frowning. "I have calls. Dinner's at seven. Marissa will show you your new wardrobe and help you pick something... appropriate."

As he turned to leave, Olivia couldn't stop herself. "And if I just walk out that door?"

Sebastian paused, not bothering to turn. "The moment you signed, I transferred funds to keep Pearson Innovations afloat. The moment you break that contract, I call those loans due. Your father will be bankrupt by morning, in federal custody by noon." Now he turned, curious. "Is that what you want, Olivia? To destroy your father to spite me?"

The worst part wasn't the threat-it was his genuine interest in her answer. Like her moral dilemma was entertaining.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a businessman. Monsters don't honor contracts." He checked his watch. "Six hours until dinner. Use them wisely."

When the door closed behind him, Olivia sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs suddenly unable to hold her. She glanced around her beautiful cage, wondering if she'd made the biggest mistake of her life.

From her purse, she pulled out the business card Ethan Blackwood had slipped her earlier. She ran her thumb over the hastily scrawled number on the back, temptation coursing through her as forbidden thoughts started building...

A discreet knock interrupted her thoughts. "Ms. Pearson?" Marissa's voice. "Ready to see your wardrobe?"

Olivia quickly tucked the card into her bra. "Yes," she called back, standing and smoothing her dress. "Let's see what clothes my husband thinks I should wear."

Husband. The word tasted like battery acid.

Olivia had never seen so many designer clothes in one place. The walk-in closet was larger than her entire apartment bedroom, with sections for every imaginable category-daywear, eveningwear, sleepwear, active wear, even a specialized section for what Marissa clinically referred to as "intimate occasions."

"Mr. Blackwood was most specific about his preferences," Marissa explained, showing her a section of lingerie that made Olivia's cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. Lace, silk, strappy contraptions-all in black, white, or blood red.

"Of course he was," Olivia muttered. "Does he have my dental floss preferences documented somewhere too?"

Marissa didn't react to the sarcasm. "The master bathroom is fully stocked with all necessary toiletries. If you require something specific, provide me with a list and it will be procured."

Marissa pulled out a black dress so simply elegant.

"For this evening, Mr. Blackwood suggested this. He likes to keep it simple for private dinners."

Olivia ran her fingers over the silk. Damn, it felt like liquid between her hands. "What if I want to wear something else?"

For once, Marissa's robot face cracked. Something like actual human emotion flickered in her eyes. "Look, Ms. Pearson... can I be real with you? I've been Blackwood's assistant for five years. I've never seen him obsess over anyone the way he has with you. Most women would kill to be in your shoes."

"In my shoes?" Olivia laughed bitterly. "You mean my prison?"

Marissa glanced nervously at the door and dropped her voice. "The women before you? They didn't last. None of them stood up to him like you do. None of them made him-" She caught herself, remembering who signed her paychecks. "The dress will work. Seven o'clock. Main dining room."

With that, she turned and left, leaving Olivia alone among clothes that cost more than most New York's bounty stores, yet somehow made her feel more exposed than if she were standing stark naked in Times Square.