Pregnant with the Ex's Uncle

A stranger yanks me into a pitchblack room. I just wanted answers. My boyfriend of five years texted me a wedding evite one hour before walking down the aisle. Fast forward.

My hand rests on my slight baby bump. Preston’s gaze drops. His jaw tightens. "Get rid of it," he barks. I stare at him. Stonecold. "Nobody else wants damaged goods," he pushes.

He takes my silence as permission to dig his grave. "Playing broke was a test. You passed.

But I need a trophy wife for the cameras." He leans closer. "You can stay my secret side piece.

You grew up too ordinary to be my actual wife." A dark smirk curves my lips. "Don't bet on it." Catch the full drama in Flushed Away: The Killer Next Door!

Chapter 1 Half a decade of my life poured into Preston. And I was the absolute last person on earth to find out he was getting married.

My knuckles turned stark white as the digital evite glared mockingly from my phone screen. My fingers dug into the velvet box in my pocket. His birthday gift.

I was going to handdeliver it and surprise him. I pulled up to the country club. Massive floral archways and an elaborate custom welcome sign flanked the entrance.

Preston stood there in a custom tux. Camille was draped in thousands of dollars of white lace. They looked like a glossy magazine spread. Perfect. Unshakeable.

The vows were already over. The muffled bass of the reception DJ vibrated through the floorboards. I pushed through a heavy oak door, scanning the dimly lit hallway for Preston.

A massive hand clamped over my mouth. Calloused fingers dug into my waist. Someone yanked me backward into pitch darkness.

The heavy door clicked shut, sealing us inside a private lounge. A scream ripped up my throat. It never made it out.

A crushing, bruising mouth crashed down on mine, swallowing the sound. Rough denim ground against my hips. I tasted whiskey and something primal—pure, unfiltered heat.

The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the small space as my silk blouse gave way. Blistering heat rolled off his massive frame. He was burning up.

A ragged, guttural growl vibrated against my collarbone. His breathing was broken, erratic. Whoever he was, he was completely out of his mind. Delirious. He shoved me back.

The backs of my knees hit the edge of a mattress. I fell back into the plush duvet. Before I could scramble away, his solid, heavy bulk caged me in.

Hard muscle pressed every inch of me into the sheets. His scorching breath enveloped me, and I vaguely realized the man was likely not in his right mind.

My thrashing limbs went completely dead. Time blurred into a haze of sweat, frantic friction, and muffled gasps. Then, the crushing weight vanished. The mattress shifted.

Heavy footsteps moved away, followed by the rush of a shower turning on. Bile rose in my throat. I fumbled in the dark, dragging my torn clothes over my trembling skin.

I stumbled toward the door, gasping for air.

I practically fell into the empty corridor. "Yeah, make sure the champagne towers are full." Preston's voice right on the other side of the nearest archway. I came here for blood.

I came to scream and shatter his perfect day. But I looked down at my bruised skin, my ruined clothes. Nausea violently twisted my stomach. I couldn't breathe.

I spun on my heel and bolted for the exit. Preston had just spent the last five years gaslighting me, playing house while planning a wedding with another woman.

I should be tearing the venue apart. But the phantom heat of a stranger's hands still burned on my thighs. What the hell was I now? The crushing shame suffocated my rage.

I was numb. Going back to the cramped apartment I shared with Preston was utterly impossible. The walls would choke me.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address I hadn't used in years. My family's estate. I was the heiress to a massive empire.

But I had buried my trust fund, stripped off my designer labels, and played the struggling girl. I crippled my own life so Preston wouldn't feel insecure about his empty wallet.

I slipped through the grand foyer. My mother intercepted me by the stairs. She took one look at my bloodshot, swollen eyes and the trembling of my hands.

She grabbed my arms, rapidfire questions spilling from her lips. I pulled away. My ears were ringing. I locked myself in my childhood bedroom, ignoring her panicked knocks.

My phone vibrated against the vanity glass. A text popped up on the screen. Preston: "Were you a good girl today, baby?

I'm bringing home your favorite takeout tonight." The message sat directly beneath the glittering digital evite of his wedding to Camille.

By sending that disgusting message, he proved he really took me for a fool. He really thought I was completely, hopelessly blind.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the block button. I wanted to erase his entire existence. Before I could press down, another bubble popped up.

Chapter 2 Preston: "Baby, I need to come clean. You always said you'd forgive me if I just told you the truth myself." Preston: "I'm not broke.

I'm the youngest son of my family's empire. I played poor because guys in my tax bracket are terrified of gold diggers. But you're different.

You passed the test." Preston: "My family forced my hand. I had to marry Camille for the corporate merger. But I don't love her. You're my only obsession.

Wait for me at the apartment. I'll get on my hands and knees and beg if I have to." A bitter, hollow laugh ripped from my throat.

Did he really think a few text bubbles would magically erase a literal wedding? My thumb slammed the screen. Blocked. Deleted.

I erased every trace of his existence from my phone and buried my face in my pillows.

I braced myself for a spectacular mental breakdown, fully expecting to spend the night glaring at the ceiling.

Instead, the sheer exhaustion of his betrayal dragged me into a heavy, dreamless sleep. My growling stomach finally pulled me out of bed the next day.

I padded downstairs in my oversized hoodie, craving carbs. I froze dead on the bottom step.

A wall of massive men in crisp black suits and dark sunglasses stood in perfect formation across my family's living room. Each of them held an open luxury box.

Velvet cases dripping with flawless diamonds. Platinum chains. Stacks of bearer bonds and property deeds. An older, sharply dressed man stood at the front.

He gave my parents a polite, calculated nod. "Sir," the man addressed my father. "My employer knows the estate lacks nothing.

But he insists on offering these as a customary prenuptial gesture of goodwill between our families." "Please accept these. Mr. Silas was called away on urgent business.

He will visit you personally to pay his respects upon his return." My brain stalled. A billionaire's engagement proposal? Here? My father was a titan in the corporate world.

He ate corporate raiders for breakfast. Right now, his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. "My Celeste already has a boyfriend," my dad bit out.

The older man didn't flinch. His polite smile never wavered. He reached behind him and produced a familiar, sleek leather box.

My stomach plummeted. "Your daughter will understand exactly what this means," the man said smoothly. It was the luxury watch box I'd brought to the wedding venue.

The one I abandoned in that pitchblack room. Only two people on earth knew what happened in that VIP lounge. I had planned to give Preston that watch to celebrate our next step.

Inside the lid, I had tucked a handwritten letter—a full confession about my hidden trust fund, my real last name, my entire double life.

Instead, my darkest secret fell straight into the hands of the absolute monster who ruined me in the dark. "Absolutely not.

Take your trash and get out of my house." I marched down the rest of the stairs, ripped the leather box from his hands, and chucked it straight into the nearest wastebasket.

The older man simply smiled. He pulled a sleek smartphone from his breast pocket and tapped the screen. "Boss.

She's here." He stepped forward, offering the phone to me like a loaded gun. "Miss Celeste.

The boss would like a word." I shoved my hands in my pockets, taking a hard step back. "I'm not—" "I'm Preston's uncle." A dark, gravelly voice bled through the phone's speaker, instantly vibrating down my spine. "Are you really going to just roll over and let that boy play you for five years?" Chapter 3 Holy shit.

The stranger in the dark. The man who tore my clothes off yesterday. It was Preston's uncle. Silas. The most ruthless, terrifying billionaire in Manhattan.

Preston playing me was sickening.

But it sure as hell didn't mean I was going to marry the first guy who threw a ring at me—especially not his notoriously dangerous uncle. "Preston lied to me for five years, and I lied to him," I said into the receiver, forcing my voice to stay level. "We're even.

You don't need to put on this show. Call off your men." Heavy, suffocating silence filled the line. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Everyone in the city knew Silas was volatile.

A predator who played by his own rules. And I had just told him no. I braced for him to snap.

Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated through the speaker. "Fine." A beat of heavy silence. "If you end up pregnant, remember to find me." "In your dreams," I snapped.

My chest heaved as I shoved the phone back at the older man. The proxy just gave me another maddeningly polite bow. He flicked his wrist.

Like a synchronized military unit, the men snapped the velvet boxes shut and filed out the door. The front door clicked shut. My mother rushed over, her face pale with worry.

I broke down and told her everything. "We've got you, Celeste," she whispered, pulling me into a fierce hug. My dad didn't say a single word.

He just stood there, staring at the empty driveway, looking entirely ready to commit murder. I clung to them.

For the first time in five years, I remembered what it felt like to be completely safe. I spent the next three days rotting in bed.

On the fourth morning, my mom dropped a firstclass ticket to Sedona onto my nightstand. "Get out of the city. Breathe." She was right.

Dodging a legal marriage to a narcissist was a massive bullet dodged. I fled to Arizona and went completely off the grid.

For an entire month, I traded suffocating skyscrapers for sweeping red rocks, punishing my legs on brutal hikes and numbing my brain with overly expensive wine, desperately trying to erase the New York disaster from my memory.

Until the morning I was supposed to hit the local artisan market. I sat up in bed. A wave of nausea hit me. I barely made it to the toilet before throwing up.

I gripped the cold porcelain. A completely deranged thought paralyzed me. My period was a week late. I threw on a hoodie and practically sprinted to the nearest pharmacy.

Ten minutes later, I was staring at the plastic stick on the bathroom counter. Two solid pink lines. That ruthless, arrogant bastard. Silas actually jinxed me.

I booked the next flight back to Manhattan. My brain was completely fried. I needed my family. I needed a plan. I dragged my suitcase through the sliding doors of JFK terminal four.

And completely froze. A fleet of black SUVs idled at the curb. The exact same proxy in the tailored suit stood waiting with a dozen security guards.

Fight or flight instantly kicked in. I spun around to bolt back inside.

The proxy materialized right in front of me, cutting off my exit. "Miss Celeste," he said, perfectly polite. "Mr. Silas is waiting." He stepped aside.

Behind him sat a custom, bulletproof Maybach. Dark tinted windows. Pure, aggressive power. I was boxed in. I forced my trembling legs to move toward the open car door.

I went to slide into the back seat, but my foot slipped. I stumbled forward into the dark interior. I slammed into a wall of solid, unyielding muscle.

A pair of massive, scorching hot hands instantly clamped onto my waist. That same intoxicating blend of mint and dark tobacco completely wrecked my senses.

Chapter 4 "Carrying my kid." His voice was pure gravel. Dark, scraping, and impossibly commanding. "Guess you can't run now." A violent shiver ripped down my spine.

The pitch, the low vibration of his tone—it was the exact acoustic signature of the man in that pitchblack room