Chapter 1: The Shattering Truth

A sliver of golden light cut through the sheer drapes, tracing a thin path over the silk sheets. The scent of expensive cologne and last night’s champagne lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of something forbidden. The world outside this penthouse was already awake cars honking, heels clicking against polished pavement but inside this gilded cage, time stood still.

Belle Madrigal stirred, the cool satin against her bare skin a sharp contrast to the fevered heat of last night. Her mind felt thick, sluggish, as if swimming through the remnants of a dream. Then reality struck.

She wasn’t in her own bed.

Her lashes fluttered open, and the sight before her stole the breath from her lungs.

A man stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, his movements precise, unhurried like a king preparing for war. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his frame exuding raw power even in the simplest of gestures. Tousled dark hair framed a face so striking it bordered on cruel high cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, and lips that had, just hours ago, murmured sins against her skin.

Alistair Kensington.

Belle’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fantasy spun from too much champagne and a reckless heartbeat. She had spent the night in his bed.

And from the way he barely spared her a glance, it meant nothing to him.

She sat up, gripping the sheets against her chest, pulse hammering. The penthouse was too perfect, too impersonal, like a palace meant to house a king but never a queen. There were no signs of warmth, no remnants of a life lived only sleek black marble, towering bookshelves, and glass walls that overlooked the city like a predator surveying its kingdom.

She wet her lips. “Alistair…”

His name tasted foreign in her mouth, like a word she had no right to speak.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge her, save for the sharp way his jaw ticked as he slid on his Rolex. "Your clothes are on the chair." His voice was smooth, indifferent. A blade wrapped in silk.

That was it?

A sharp pang twisted inside her ribs. She’d known men like him existed ones who wielded power with a single glance, who moved through life unshaken, untouchable but she never thought she’d wake up in their world.

Heat flushed up her throat. “Is that all you have to say?”

Alistair sighed, finally meeting her gaze through the reflection in the glass. His eyes a ruthless, piercing blue held nothing but disinterest. “What else is there to say?”

Belle clenched the sheets, anger warring with humiliation. “You don’t remember?”

He exhaled, slow and measured. “I remember enough.”

The way he said it calm, detached, like last night was just another business deal made something snap inside her.

She threw back the sheets, ignoring how her heart slammed against her ribs. “So that’s it? You get what you want, and now I’m just supposed to leave like some some ”

His gaze flicked over her, unreadable. “Like someone who knew exactly what she was getting into?”

The words hit harder than they should have. She had known what she was doing when she let herself be drawn into his world, into the dark allure of him. But she never expected this this cold dismissal, this complete erasure of whatever had burned between them last night.

Alistair checked his watch, unbothered by her fury. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes. The driver will take you wherever you need to go."

That was the end of it.

No goodbye. No lingering looks.

Nothing.

Belle sat frozen, feeling the weight of reality settle over her like a suffocating shroud. Alistair Kensington wasn’t a man who made mistakes. He wasn’t a man who second-guessed his decisions. And she she was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence.

He strode toward the door, adjusting his cufflinks with the same precision he did everything. And then, just as he reached the threshold, he hesitated.

A fraction of a second. A pause so imperceptible she almost missed it.

But then, without a word, he was gone.

Belle remained in the center of his bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. She should have been relieved. Should have run from this place, from him.

But as she exhaled, her fingers unconsciously brushed over her abdomen.

Something felt different.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Weeks passed, but the ghost of that night lingered.

Belle threw herself into law school, drowning in cases and textbooks, determined to erase Alistair Kensington from her mind. She pretended she didn’t feel off, that exhaustion wasn’t pressing down on her bones, that she wasn’t waking up every morning with a nausea that refused to fade.

But when the world tilted for the third time that day, sending her slamming against a locker, she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Jesus, Belle, you look like death.” Chloe Stevens, her best friend and classmate, eyed her like a mother hen ready to scold. “Have you even eaten today?”

Belle forced a smile, though the edges wobbled. “I’m fine. Just…tired.”

Chloe’s frown deepened. “Tired? You almost fainted in the courtroom simulation.” She grabbed Belle’s wrist, eyes narrowing. “You’re clammy. You sure you’re not ”

The words lodged in her throat, unspoken but heavy.

Belle’s stomach twisted violently. No.

No, it wasn’t possible.

She ripped her arm free, suddenly suffocated by the hallway, the noise, the stares. “I just need air.”

But as she stumbled into the bathroom, as she leaned against the cool porcelain sink, a horrifying thought whispered in the back of her mind.

The sickness. The exhaustion. The way her body felt… different.

Her hands trembled as she dug into her bag, pulling out her phone.

Minutes later, she was in a drugstore, staring at the aisle of pregnancy tests.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

She grabbed three.

The test lay on the sink, a tiny piece of plastic that held the power to change everything.

Belle sat on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped around herself, feeling like she was on the edge of something cataclysmic.

A deep breath. A prayer she wasn’t sure she believed in.

She forced herself to look.

Two dark lines.

Her stomach lurched.

Her world collapsed.

The plastic stick trembled in her grip.

Pregnant.

Her mind rebelled against the word, tried to rationalize it away.

But it was real.

Her breathing quickened, the room shrinking around her. She pressed a hand to her stomach, half-expecting to feel something shift, to feel proof of the life growing inside her.

She was alone.

Alistair’s voice echoed in her mind detached, final.

She knew what kind of man he was. He wouldn’t want this.

Her phone rang, cutting through the silence.

She grabbed it, heart hammering.

An unknown number.

She hesitated. Answered.

A clipped, female voice filled the silence. “Belle Madrigal?”

She swallowed. “Yes?”

“This is Gabrielle Richards, calling on behalf of Kensington Enterprises. Effective immediately, you are not to contact Mr. Kensington again.”

Silence.

Belle gripped the test, the finality of the words sinking in.

The choice had been made for her.

She was on her own.

The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence.

Belle didn’t realize her hands were trembling until she saw the shards of porcelain at her feet, remnants of the teacup she had been holding. The television screen flickered in front of her, illuminating the dim corners of her tiny apartment. The glow was warm, but the words being spoken chilled her to the bone.

“This morning, Kensington Enterprises’ CEO, Alistair Kensington, confirmed his engagement to Evangeline Sterling, heiress to the Sterling family fortune.”

Her breath hitched.

The camera zoomed in, capturing his face the same man who had traced his lips down her skin, whispered sins into her ear, made her believe, even if for one night, that she wasn’t just another fleeting moment.

Alistair stood at the podium, his usual composed, calculated self, draped in a perfectly tailored black suit. He looked untouchable. Unshaken. The very picture of power and control.

Beside him, Evangeline Sterling.

The woman was everything Belle wasn’t icy blonde hair cascading in soft waves, a slender figure sculpted by privilege, an effortless air of elegance. She smiled as if the world belonged to her, as if he belonged to her.

Belle couldn’t breathe.

The reporter’s voice droned on, but the words became a blur, lost beneath the pounding of her heart.

a perfect power couple

set to merge two of the largest corporate empires

a love story fit for the ages

Belle clutched the couch arm, her nails digging into the fabric. Her stomach twisted a cruel, unrelenting nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness.

Was it real? Had she imagined that night? The way his hands gripped her waist, the way his breath hitched when he pulled her close?

She stared at the screen, searching for any trace of hesitation in his expression.

There was none.

Alistair reached for Evangeline’s hand, threading their fingers together. He turned to the cameras, his lips curving into something that almost resembled warmth.

Belle wanted to scream.

He had touched her the same way. Held her in the dark, kissed her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the present. And now?

Now, she was nothing.

A sharp pain clenched her abdomen, a deep, twisting ache that had nothing to do with physical distress and everything to do with betrayal.

She curled her arms around herself, hands pressing lightly over her stomach. Her baby.

She wasn’t alone in this.

But if Alistair Kensington could stand on that stage, in front of the world, holding another woman’s hand, then what did that mean for her?

For their child?

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Belle’s pulse pounded against her ribs as she pressed the device closer to her ear, fingers clutching it with desperation.

Voicemail.

Again.

She exhaled sharply, then redialed, pacing the length of her small apartment. The room suddenly felt suffocating, the walls pressing in. The air was thick with something unspoken something terrifying.

The line connected.

A voice answered, clipped and professional. “Kensington Enterprises.”

Belle’s breath shuddered. “I need to speak to Alistair.”

A pause.

Then, “Who may I say is calling?”

Belle swallowed. “Tell him it’s Belle. Belle Madrigal.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.

She could hear the distant clatter of keyboards, voices murmuring in the background, the quiet efficiency of an empire that moved without hesitation. And yet, here she stood, on the outside, begging to be heard.

Finally, the voice returned, this time colder, sharper. “Mr. Kensington is unavailable.”

Belle’s grip tightened on the phone. “Then leave him a message. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him ”

“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.”

A new voice.

Female. Crisp. Unforgiving.

Belle’s stomach twisted. “Who is this?”

“This is Gabrielle Richards,” the woman responded smoothly. “Mr. Kensington’s personal secretary. He’s asked that you not contact him again.”

The words sliced through her.

Her knees nearly buckled. “What?”

“I trust that is clear,” Gabrielle continued, unbothered. “Do not call this number again.”

The line clicked dead.

Belle stood frozen, the silence louder than the buzzing in her ears.

She stared at the phone, her mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

He blocked her out.

Like she was nothing.

Like that night meant nothing.

The betrayal settled deep, a wound that wouldn’t heal.

She lowered the phone, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He wouldn’t even give her the courtesy of rejecting her himself. He had sent his secretary to do it.

The nausea rose again, sharp and relentless. She stumbled toward the bathroom, falling to her knees just as her stomach heaved.

She had never felt more alone.