Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

Twenty minutes before the "Wedding of the Century" at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire. I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I didn't scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he'd dump "that hillbilly trash" on a bus back to the mountains. They weren't just cheating; they were planning to steal my family's land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn't apologize. They called me a "greedy peasant" and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock. I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim. "If we don't have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity," their lawyer warned. So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn't marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months. Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I've suspended Hugh's executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I'm just a gold-digger waiting for a "corpse" to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow's payout. But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back.

Modern Scheming Contract marriage Billionaires CEO Flash Marriage Revenge Age Gap

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A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through June's lower abdomen.

It was so sudden, so violently intense, that her fingers went numb. The glass of water slipped from her hand.

It hit the hardwood floor, shattering into dozens of jagged pieces. The sound echoed loudly in the massive, empty master bedroom of the Compton estate.

June tried to take a step forward, but her knees buckled.

A cold sweat instantly broke out across her forehead, sticking her hair to her skin. She collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug, her hands flying to her stomach.

Her lungs forgot how to pull in air. The pain wasn't just a dull ache; it felt like a serrated blade twisting inside her organs.

Her vision blurred at the edges, turning gray. She knew her body. She was a medical researcher. This was not a normal pregnancy cramp. Her vital signs were crashing.

Her phone was on the nightstand, three feet away. It looked like a mile.

Trembling violently, June dragged her body across the floor. The jagged pieces of the broken glass bit into her knee, but she couldn't even feel it over the agony in her abdomen.

She reached up, her fingers blindly clawing at the nightstand until she knocked the phone down.

The bright screen pierced her eyes. Her fingers were slick with cold sweat. She pressed the speed dial. Number 1.

Cole.

The phone rang once.

June squeezed her eyes shut, her fingernails digging so hard into her palms that the skin broke. Please answer. Please.

It rang a second time. Each second stretched out, heavy and suffocating.

Then, a click.

"What?" Cole's voice came through the speaker.

It wasn't a greeting. It was a wall of ice. In the background, June could hear the clinking of champagne flutes and the smooth jazz of a live band.

"Cole..." June gasped, her throat tight and dry. "Help me... the baby..."

Before Cole could respond, a high-pitched, sweet voice drifted through the receiver.

"Cole, who is it? We're going to be late for the red carpet."

Alycia.

June's stomach lurched. The pain spiked, sending a wave of nausea up her throat.

"June," Cole said, his tone dropping into a low, impatient growl. "If this is your pathetic attempt to stop me from attending the gala, it's a terrible strategy."

"No..." June choked out. She tasted something metallic in her mouth. Blood. "I'm bleeding. Please."

"Stop acting," Cole snapped. She could almost see him adjusting his expensive cufflinks, annoyed by her existence. "You are perfectly fine. We are walking on stage in two minutes. Do not call this number again tonight."

"Cole, wait-"

The line went dead.

The dial tone buzzed in the silent room. It sounded like a death sentence.

June stared at the darkened screen. Her phone slipped from her weak grasp, landing on the rug.

A sudden, terrifying warmth spread between her thighs.

June looked down. A dark, thick pool of red was soaking into the intricate patterns of the Persian rug.

Blood. So much blood.

A primal panic seized her chest. She was losing the baby.

With the last ounce of strength in her shaking fingers, she grabbed the phone again and dialed 911.

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