Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir

( WARREN )

Alcohol strips away the armor of even the most terrifying men in Asuir City.

I watch Alistair Wolfe reach for his crystal tumbler. His fingers miss the smooth glass by a fraction of an inch. His knuckles drag against the crisp white linen tablecloth. He blinks heavily, correcting his trajectory and wrapping his large hand around the heavy base. He brings the dark red vintage wine to his lips, swallowing the expensive liquid like water.

We spent the last two hours engaged in a grueling marathon of high-proof consumption. The empty bottles sit near the edge of the polished mahogany table. Alistair consumed enough alcohol to sedate a massive animal. Yet, he refuses to surrender completely to the intoxication. He holds onto a tiny, stubborn shred of absolute sobriety. His posture slumps, his tailored charcoal suit a wrinkled mess, but his dark eyes retain a dangerous, glassy focus.

He will not allow himself to completely black out. He trusts me, but the CEO of the Wolfe Empire trusts no one enough to lose total consciousness in their presence.

"You’re done," I say, reaching across the table to pull the half-empty bottle away from his hand. "If you drink another drop, I’ll have to carry you out of this private suite myself. That violates my strict policy against physical labor."

Alistair doesn’t argue. He rests his elbows on the table and drops his heavy head into his hands. A harsh, jagged breath escapes his lungs. The corporate predator is entirely gone. He just looks like an exhausted, broken man carrying the weight of the world on his collarbone.

I press the silver call button resting near the floral centerpiece.

The heavy oak door opens thirty seconds later. Jackson steps into the room. The personal assistant takes one look at his employer and immediately crosses the carpeted floor. He operates with flawless professional discretion. He doesn’t judge the empty bottles or the staggering state of the most powerful man in the city.

"Mr. Wolfe," Jackson says quietly, gripping Alistair by the right bicep. "The car is waiting at the private rear exit."

Alistair nods slowly. He plants his feet on the floor and forces himself to stand. His knees buckle slightly. He sways to the left, his heavy frame losing the battle against gravity. Jackson adjusts his grip instantly, sliding an arm around Alistair to absorb the weight and steady his employer.

Alistair takes a deep, ragged breath, blinking hard to clear his vision. He begins a slow, uncoordinated march toward the door.

I stand up from my plush leather armchair. I slide my hands into the pockets of my midnight-blue trousers.

"Alistair," I call out.

He stops near the doorframe. He turns his head, peering over his shoulder with bloodshot eyes.

𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

"Emily didn’t come to Bordeaux 101 today to discuss the Azure Syndicate," I state, keeping my voice low and perfectly clear. "She didn’t come here to demand favors or complain about her living arrangements. She came here because she noticed you were spiraling. She actively sought me out to gauge your emotional state. She is genuinely concerned about your well-being."

Alistair goes perfectly still. The heavy, sluggish intoxication seems to evaporate for a single second. I watch his chest expand. A new, sharp light enters his dark eyes. The profound misery lifts, replaced by a quiet, desperate spark of hope. The knowledge that she actually cares about his mental state creates a visible shift in his entire demeanor.

He doesn’t say a word. He simply nods once, allowing Jackson to guide him out into the carpeted hallway. The heavy door clicks shut.

I stand alone in the quiet dining suite. I pick up my own glass, staring at the dark red liquid. I harbored my own quiet fascination with Emily Vance. She possesses a terrifying intellect and a flawless spine. But watching Alistair crumble under the weight of his own heart makes the reality incredibly clear. They are completely entangled.

I take a slow sip of the wine. As his oldest friend, I truly hope the stubborn idiot finds a way to secure his own happiness.

( EMILY )

The digital clock on the bedside nightstand reads two in the morning.

I sit on the extreme right edge of the massive mattress inside the master suite. The thick white duvet covers my legs. The air conditioning blows a steady stream of cold air from the ceiling vents, keeping the room at a crisp, freezing temperature. I pull my knees to my chest, resting my chin on my folded arms.

Alistair hasn’t returned.

The silence in the Wolfe Estate feels heavier tonight. I stare at the dark wallpaper across the room. My mind cycles through the conversation I had with Warren Sinclair inside that private dining suite at Bordeaux 101. Alistair is obsessing over Kiki, the phantom who saved him from the M-209 neurotoxin in the Blackwood Gorge.

A sudden, bright light illuminates my face. My mobile phone vibrates against the mattress.

I grab the device. The screen displays an incoming text message from Warren.

I unlock the phone, opening the encrypted messaging application.

Warren: The big bad wolf is officially on his way back to the estate. He’s heavily intoxicated. Don’t attempt to engage him in complex conversation tonight.

I read the words, a small knot of tension loosening in my chest. He is safe.

Emily: Did you extract any useful intelligence? The matriarch expects a full report by sunrise.

A small typing bubble appears on the screen. It dances for a full minute before Warren’s reply finally arrives.

Warren: You can rest easy, Emily. His current destructive mood has absolutely nothing to do with relationship issues. He isn’t agonizing over a secret lover.

I frown, tapping my thumb against the glass screen.

Emily: Then what exactly is troubling him? Why is he tearing his corporate headquarters apart?

Warren: Work. Massive corporate stress. He’s trying to force impossible timelines on the engineering teams at the Ultimate Power Laboratory. The lithium plant acquisitions in South America are failing. He’s managing a catastrophic logistical bottleneck, and the lack of sleep is amplifying his temper. Tell Celia Wolfe her grandson is just a workaholic on the verge of burnout.

I read the explanation twice. It sounds perfectly logical. Alistair operates the Wolfe Empire with ruthless precision. A sequence of massive corporate failures provides a perfectly acceptable excuse for his erratic behavior.

Emily: Thanks, Warren. I appreciate the assistance.

I move my thumb to lock the screen, ready to place the phone back on the nightstand. The device vibrates again.

Warren: I have a question for you, Emily.

Emily: Ask.

Warren: Do you really not like him?

I stare at the glowing text. The question is incredibly blunt.

Warren: Alistair Wolfe possesses an obscene amount of wealth. He wields absolute power over Asuir City. He is undeniably handsome. Ninety-nine percent of the women in this city would kill for the position you currently hold. Are you entirely immune to all of that?

My fingers hover over the digital keyboard. The glare of the screen hurts my tired eyes. I don’t need to think about my answer. The logic is already permanently carved into my brain.

Emily: I’m entirely self-aware, Warren. I don’t harbor unrealistic expectations simply because a man possesses money and a sharp jawline. I know exactly where I stand. The gap between our social classes is a massive, impenetrable wall. Celia Wolfe made it perfectly clear I’m unworthy of crossing the threshold of this house. His uncles view me as a parasite. I’m not going to fall for a man whose family treats me like a disease.

The typing bubble appears again. Warren doesn’t surrender easily.

Warren: Social class is a convenient excuse. If you truly liked someone, you wouldn’t be overly concerned about the aristocratic opinions of a few bitter relatives. Have you ever actually looked into your own heart, Emily? Or are you just hiding behind the class divide to protect yourself?

I read the words. A sharp, stinging heat flares in the center of my chest.

Warren is pushing too hard. He is attempting to dissect my emotional defense mechanisms over a text message.

I don’t type a reply. I lower the phone to my lap, staring blankly into the dark corners of the bedroom.

Do I like Alistair?

He wrapped his jacket around my freezing shoulders when my own father locked me in a dark storage room. He protected me from Silas Hunt. He gives me moments of quiet, unexpected respect.

But falling in love is a terrifying, dangerous game. I played that game once before. I gave Julian Thorne three years of my sincere, absolute love. I trusted him completely. He repaid that devotion by cheating on me with my manipulative stepsister, Chloe. He allowed me to undergo grueling medical procedures to secure his family line while he betrayed me in the shadows.

Julian destroyed my ability to trust blindly. The emotional agony he caused left a permanent, jagged scar.

Perhaps I truly don’t like Alistair. Perhaps the rigid, icy walls he builds around himself make him impossible to love. Or maybe I simply refuse to start a new relationship. The pain from my broken engagement is still fresh. Handing my vulnerable heart over to a billionaire who lies about essential oils and obsesses over ghosts is an act of pure self-destruction.

The safest path is absolute distance. The best thing I can do for Alistair Wolfe, and for my own survival, is to maintain the cold war. I will keep my distance. I will focus entirely on Sterling Pharmaceuticals and my bubble tea shop. I won’t let his dark eyes or his broad shoulders compromise my independence.

I place the mobile phone face down on the polished wood.

I reach out and press the main light switch on the wall panel. The heavy overhead lights power down, plunging the massive master suite into deep shadows.

I pull my hand back. My fingers brush against the small, brass switch of the bedside reading lamp.

He is heavily intoxicated. He will stumble through the dark. He might hit his knee against the heavy oak furniture or trip over the thick wool rug.

I flip the brass switch. A soft, warm pool of yellow light spills across the left side of the mattress. It provides a gentle glow toward the heavy bedroom doors, creating a clear, illuminated path through the room.

I slide under the thick duvet, turning my back to the door. I pull the blankets up to my chin. I will keep my distance, but I won’t let him navigate the dark entirely alone.