Carrying His Heir: The Unwanted Wife's Escape

Eleanor slid the perfectly roasted Beef Wellington onto a warm plate. The scent of truffle and thyme filled the vast, sterile kitchen of the Manhattan penthouse.

She glanced at the antique clock on the wall. Ten o'clock.

Her lower back ached from standing for hours. She pressed a hand against the spot, a small, unconscious gesture.

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights of Manhattan blurring into a watercolor wash. She moved to the long dining table, the crystal glasses and polished silver gleaming. With a steady hand, she lit the scented candles on the silver candelabra, their warm glow pushing back against the storm outside.

The front door opened.

Julian Sterling walked in with the chill of New York's autumn. A chill clings to his custom suit, accompanied by a pungent smell of medicine. Disinfectant.

She reached out to take his jacket. "You're back."

He sidestepped to avoid her touch.

This jacket, worth thousands of yuan, was piled up and landed on the white leather sofa. His movements were stiff, carrying a kind of irritation that had nothing to do with her.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, didn't even glance at the candlelit dining table. They landed on her, cold and direct.

"Put on your coat," he said. The words were short and stiff. "We are going to Mayfair Private Hospital,Seraphina Reed. She was bleeding internally. She needs Rh-negative blood.

Eleanor stood frozen, her smile cracking like thin ice. "What? Seraphina?"

She stopped. A cold realization washed over her, turning her blood to ice.

"You've been with her," Eleanor whispered. Not a question.The truth landed like a blade between her ribs. "This whole week. You weren't working. You were with her."

Julian's jaw tightened. He didn't deny it. He didn't even flinch. "That's not important right now. Seraphina's condition is critical. Her blood type is rare. You're a match."

Eleanor's hands began to tremble. The warm glow of the candles suddenly felt mocking. She looked down at the cooling Beef Wellington—the dish she had practiced for weeks, the meal she had imagined him tasting with surprise and pleasure.

"Do you even know what day it is?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze flickered to the table for a fraction of a second. Annoyance crossed his features. "This isn't the time for games, Eleanor."

Games.

The word cut deeper than any knife.

She pressed her injured finger against her palm, the sting grounding her. "You want my blood?" she asked, her voice trembling but hardening with each word. "To save her?"

Julian's expression darkened. He stepped closer, his height and presence filling the space between them, suffocating her. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."

"No."

The word hung in the air, sharp and final.

His eyes turned glacial. "What did you say?"

Eleanor lifted her chin, though her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might collapse. "I said no. You don't get to disappear for a week, lie to me about where you're going, and then come back demanding my blood for your—" She stopped, swallowing the bitter words. "For her."

A muscle feathered in Julian's jaw. His patience, always thin when it came to her, was visibly fraying. "Eleanor. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"Harder?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. It sounded hollow, broken. "You want my help? Then you have to give me something first."

Julian stared at her as if seeing a stranger. A distasteful one. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "What do you want?"

Eleanor took a deep breath. The air burned in her lungs. She thought of the two years she had spent in this penthouse—invisible. The years of waiting. Of hoping. Of believing that if she just tried hard enough, he would see her. Love her.

But he never did.

"Tomorrow night," she said, each word precise and heavy. "At the charity gala. I want you to introduce me as your wife. Publicly. I want you to acknowledge our marriage. To everyone."

The silence that followed was absolute. It was broken only by a distant roll of thunder that made her flinch—a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

A short, sharp laugh escaped Julian's lips. It was a sound devoid of any humor, full of contempt.

"Absolutely not," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "Seraphina is in the hospital, possibly dying, and you want to use this moment to bargain for social status? You're even colder than I thought."

The words struck her like a slap. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She had cried over this man too many times already.

"I'm cold?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "You've hidden me away for two years, Julian. Two years. I've been your secret. Your dirty little secret. And now you want my blood for the woman you've probably been with all week—"

"That's enough." His voice was ice. "Seraphina doesn't have time for your theatrics."

"Then you can think about my condition while she waits," Eleanor said, her voice rising with a sharp edge of hysteria she rarely showed. "You said she's critical? Then every minute counts, doesn't it? So you'd better decide fast."

She turned around, turned her back to him, and walked back to the marble console. She picked up a glass of ice water and drank it all in one go; the coldness did not numb the pain in her throat at all.

His patience broke down.

He crossed that space in two steps, his hand tightly gripping her wrist. His hands were as strong as steel. He started pulling her toward the door.

"Let go of me," she said, her voice rising with a rarely revealed sharp hysteria.

Her resistance only fueled his anger. His fingers tightened, squeezing her skin until it turned blue.

Her free hand fumbled and touched a crystal cup. Without thinking, she grabbed it and threw it to the ground.

It shattered like a gunshot.

A piece of broken glass flew out, drawing a thin red line across Julian's hand.

He stopped. He looked down at the blood seeping from his skin, then looked at her. His face was filled with cold anger.

He suddenly released her wrist, causing her to stagger backward.

"Fine," he roared, his voice low and dangerous. "Stay here. The deal was canceled. ”