Ositas Bliss
2 Published Stories
Ositas Bliss's Books and Stories
The Unexpected Surrogate for the Ruthless Billionaire
Billionaires "I loved you, Isabelle, but not anymore. Allison here is carrying my child," Morris said, his tone firm and unyielding.
***
After four years of marriage without a kid, Isabelle finally took in but through IVF. On reaching her friend's apartment to break the good news, she bumped into her husband and her friend in bed, naked.
With a shattered heart, Isabelle is called back to the hospital where she is informed of the mistake during insemination. The child in her womb belongs to another man – Carlos Fernandez, the ruthless billionaire. That is, she was mistakenly injected with another man's sperms.
Also, she is informed that her husband's real was also tested but unable to initiate fertilization.
So, if Morris is impotent, whose child is Allison carrying?
Isabelle returns home only to be served with divorce papers...
What happens after the truth about Allison's pregnancy is exposed?
Will Carlos accept Isabelle when he finally fines out she's the wrong surrogate?
Find out as you keep reading. You might like
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
Fritz Heaney I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon.
The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission.
For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment.
When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself.
"Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."