The CEO's Divorced Wife is Pregnant

Chapter Two: What Luck

"Don't worry, I'll pay you the end of our deal. It was five hundred, right? Let's do a million. I'll give you a million."

Wait what? Does he think money is the issue right now?

Five hundred thousand Devnian dollars for a fake marriage—that was the deal. It was all because his grandfather wanted to hand over the company to a ‘responsible’ man, and he believed a man is responsible only when he is married.

Five hundred thousand… hell, I would have done it for free because he was Dean Rochester, the man I had a crush on since I was fifteen, the only one to stand up for my father when his family accused him of stealing and because I'm just that stupid to hang on to the hope that if I become his wife and spend time with him, he will eventually fall in love with me.

But what does he mean by divorce?

I mean, I know our end was predetermined, but- what?

"But- she- I-"

I try to spit the words, but my father’s dejected voice fills my mind.

‘Never let them remember that you are human.’

My fingers fold into fists as my jaw tenses at the words left unsaid.

"I see.”

I say instead of begging him like I want to.

Just one month, no, that’s too much; two weeks, no, sleep with me. Just take my virginity so that I will at least come out of this fake marriage with an unforgettable night.

Swallowing the last ounce of my pride, I clear my throat and speak.

“Just one-”

Before I can voice my compulsive thoughts and say, ‘Just one night, hold me just once’, a laugh leaves his lips, stealing every ounce of courage I mustered.

“God, three years, and that's it, an ‘I see’? I thought you would beg me or something. How cold, Cecilia. But I guess that’s why you were perfect for the role. If you said anything else, it would have left a bitter taste in my mouth.”

Hah…

Hahahaha…

Really…who is really the cold one?

The words I almost blurted die in my throat, and a calm smile relaxes on my lips.

“I- ahem! I am happy to have been of service.”

He nods at my response; it must be my imagination that he looks angry.

"You will find Dawson with the papers; I've already signed them; just sign your part and…I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.”

"I see. How-”

The words choke up in my throat. It's hard to talk, but he will notice something is wrong if I stop here.

“How long will you give me to clear out from the house?"

I ask, and he frowns.

Shit, I want to cry, but I can never do that in front of him.

This night keeps getting worse.

“Clear out?”

He repeats and then tilts his head to the side as if he hadn’t thought about me leaving.

“Well…you won't exactly feel comfortable living with your ex-wife.”

“Hmm, I hadn’t thought about that. Take all the time you need; I know you have a million things in there.”

A million? My things wouldn’t even fit in a medium-sized bag. Have we been living in different houses?

“Anyway, take your time, Cecilia; I can use the townhouse if there is a need for it. I won’t kick my ‘wife’ out in the cold.”

Am I imagining it, or did he emphasise ‘wife’? No, I'm imagining it; he is probably using that term one last time because we will be strangers after this.

**

“Madam?”

Emma, my maid, calls my name warmly as she wraps her hands on mine.

“Oh no, the dress!”

“Can we get the wine out?”

I ask with a tired sigh.

“Not without professional help; I mean, it's cream-coloured. We can try sending it to the dry cleaners and-”

“Oh, no. More expenses that I can’t afford.”

I mutter words I have never before, and she frowns.

“What do you mean ‘you can't afford’? If you let your husband know the dress is rented, he will definitely buy it, and you won't have to deal with returning it, as usual. I don’t understand how you can be this stubborn! A dress is nothing compared to-”

With a warm smile, I nod exaggeratedly at her words as my hands press to her lips, which won’t stop moving.

“Just…talk to your husband.”

She insists before changing the topic.

“I have prepared the bath and-”

“Wait!”

I pull my hand from hers and turn to face Butler Dawson, who is approaching us.

His eyes dart from me to the folder in his hand and then to Emma.

I don’t want him to announce my divorce like this. Or does the entire house already know? No, from Emma’s suggestion that I ask ‘my husband’, the help doesn’t know.

“Emma, you should head to bed first; I need to speak with Butler Dawson, which might take a while.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Emma’s cheeks flush as she bows, perhaps a little embarrassed for allowing her excitement to flow through.

The butler finally approaches me when Emma leaves, and without a word, he hands me the brown envelope.

“A pen?”

I ask as I open and scatter the documents on the end table next to me.

“You can take your time in signing.”

“Is that what Mr Rochester said, or is that your opinion?”

I ask, gauging if I should follow those words because I don’t want to sign.

“Everyone will be sad to see you go, Mrs Rochester.”

Translation: They were just his thoughts.

Studying the contents of the documents, I noticed Deans's signature sprawled at the end of almost every page. How eager was he to get this ‘over with’? Melissa has just been here for three days.

“It will be Miss Cecilia in less than a few seconds.”

I answer with a sad smile, and the older man averts his pity-filled gaze from me.

Fuck, if I stay here for long, that’s how everyone will look at me. I will lose their respect and instead earn their pity.

I worked so hard for their respect, just to get them to shed their image of me as a thief’s daughter, but what if I become pathetic instead?

Taking a deep breath, I bite my trembling lower lip and trace the offered pen on every dotted line requiring my consent.

“There.”

I say and sniff loudly because even though no tears trickled down my face, my eyes remained wet, balancing my dignity with painful and fat tears that forced me to look at the ceiling to keep them from falling.

“Miss Cecilia-”

“Thank you for everything, Butler Dawson.”

I interrupt, thinking he means to console me.

“No, I mean, this is the cheque Mr Rochester left in the morning.”

Oh…right, of course. How can he console me on a fake marriage he knew about?

**

***

One million.

The cheque flutters between my fingers from the force of the blow dry; it is only when I turn off the machine that the paper’s movements fall still.

Fresh tears fill my eyes, but before they can trace the same pattern on my freshly washed face, my phone’s buzzing calls me.

It's almost midnight, and my half-sister, Ellie and my now ex-husband, Dean, are the only two who can text me at this hour.

My fingers move effortlessly to the screen.

A part of me hopes it is Dean texting, ‘Forget about what I said; let’s talk when I get home’. Even without a basis for this being the case, butterflies flutter in my belly, but the feeling quickly fades when I realise that it is from an unknown number. The message, if you could even call it that, is plain and simple; there are no words in the SMS, just a picture of Dean wrapping ice on 'Melly's' hands that slapped me taken between empty liquor bottles at the bar.

The photo is obviously meant to upset me; no doubt it's from Anastasia, but I can't tear my eyes from the picture, even knowing that it is meant out of malice. I hope to find traces of Photoshop, but a weak laugh leaves my lips when nothing sticks out because the picture is real.

If I stay here, I'll probably die of jealousy, no, I'll die, period.

I need to leave this house tonight, no, I need to leave this house and lose my virginity tonight; by doing that, I will be leaving everything I reserved for Dean behind.

**

It took me less than an hour to pack everything I owned in the neat duffle bag I entered this house with the day after we got married. A million things? What's that?

With a loud sigh, I place my luggage near the door and return to the mirror. With nothing ‘fancy’ to wear, I snatched a black dress from the clothes Dean so obviously meant for Melissa based on the size. He sends for more per week; surely he won't notice if one is missing.

And even if he does, surely I am allowed a dress, aren’t I?

Still, no matter how hard I try, the dress doesn't fit my body right.

Unlike Melissa’s perky chest and delicate curves, I'm bursting at the seams. My breasts, no matter how I tuck them, keep trying to spill from the lace bodice framing the dress, and as if that isn’t bad enough, my hips make the dress ride higher than intended.

If I were to put on Spanx, I would look like a prude given the reputation of the club with high-end male escorts that I had so often heard about at parties, but leaving it as-is would make other guests think I am an escort.

There is no good in between.

I frown and chew nervously on my lips as my finger taps restlessly on the dressing table.

Maybe my plan is crazy.

I groan, second-guessing myself as I give myself one last look in the mirror and cringe.

Yeah, this is crazy! I should head to my parent's house, tell my step-mum that Dean and I are divorced, take her yelling without talking back, order a tub of ice cream, and when I am finally alone, cry that I am probably the only-

“-divorced virgin in the world. What the fuck.”

Repeating the words in my mind out loud makes my situation feel worse.

I'm almost thirty, and now I'm divorced—a divorced thirty-year-old virgin.

"That's not even a joke."

I mutter in a voice shaky with anger as the injustice of my situation fills me a new.

“Who cares if I look cringe? I am paying someone to take my virginity; that’s even more cringe! But what else can I do? I don’t want to remain untouched forever. I want to- Wow! I am bad at self-pep talks.”

I groan as I realise the words I had said aloud still label me a loser—well, a determined loser, but still…a loser.

No, Cecilia, this is happening. Dean has already spelt in every language known to man that you are not his type, so…let’s pay for s*x.

With a determined sigh, I reach for the check the butler had given me and stuff it in the envelope next to the one with the money I had set aside for today’s activities.

Five thousand should be enough for one night, right?

That’s perhaps more on the upper side, but the place is fancy, so…five thousand is good, considering I might have to pay for the room too.

I reassure myself, pull the ring I treasured off my finger, place it on the dresser next to a sticky note with a ‘thank you’ scribbled on it, grab my coat, wrap it around my body, take the little luggage I had in Dean’s house, and turn off the lights in the room that had been mine for the last three years; it will soon be Melissa’s, and all those beautiful clothes will have their owner.

**

Visiting a club with luggage screams desperate, especially a classy club like this one, where everything seems like it’s made of gold and obsidian.

This is my first time visiting such a high-end area without Dean. The only thing keeping me from fleeing is the appletini in my hand, that and I am pretty sure I have a raw wound from the heels I have on.

I had been wearing them since the party earlier.

Maybe I should leave; I don’t suit this place, and this was an impulse decision anyway-

“What are you drinking, cara mia?” (My darling)

Cara mia? Italian?

A deep, heady cologne surrounds my body as a firm warmth spreads through my back. I don’t think the stranger is standing so close to me, so why do I feel as if there is a firm weight on my bare back?

The stranger’s voice is so deep that I unconsciously tighten the hold on my martini glass.

“Appletini.”

I reply, trying my best to keep my voice steady.

“Is that why you smell like apples?”

“Is that a pickup line?”

I ask as I finally turn to face the man. I wanted to tease him more because that line was lame, but my words instantly die in my throat.

He is handsome—no, beyond that, he is unreasonably handsome. His lightly pale blonde hair with deep brown roots resembles what I imagine swirled chocolate and cardinal pleasure look like because the absurd colour mix makes me want to sink my fingers in the neat mass. His cold grey eyes burn everywhere they lick my skin, making me feel conscious of my bare shoulders and exposed chest. His sharp jaw and perfect lips frame his excessively large build, which makes him look dangerous.

My hands linger on the size of his hands, I am not one who believes in rumours about the size of ones hand and their package but I can’t help but swallow dryly.

My God, he looks like he walked straight out of a Greek mythology.

“A pick-up line? Do I need that?”

The man asks in a slow and relaxed voice as he c***s his head to the side. His overconfidence oozes with each deeply pronounced word.

No, he doesn’t need a pick-up line, no wait… with how handsome he is, he is most likely an escort, isn’t he?

Oh, what luck!