Chapter 001

Morgan’s POV

Steam rose from the bathtub as I adjusted the faucet, watching the warm water slowly fill the marble basin. I glanced at my phone: 9:30 AM. Thirty minutes to prepare for my meeting with Alexander—just enough time to gather my thoughts before delivering the divorce papers that would end our five-year marriage.

The bathroom mirror revealed my exhaustion. My green eyes, once described as my most striking feature, now appeared dull against my pale face. Five years of pretending had taken their toll.

Just get through this final meeting, I told myself. Then it's over.

I walked towards the bathtub to check the water level when I suddenly felt the floor beneath my feet become slick. Before I could react, my legs slipped out from under me.

In that terrifying moment of weightlessness, time seemed to slow down. My heart leaped into my throat, my body instinctively pitched forward, and my hands flailed wildly in the air, desperately seeking something to grab onto.

I was certain that those few seconds were just a flash, but they felt like an eternity. My fingers finally brushed against the edge of the sink, providing some support and preventing me from completely falling. However, the weight of my descent yanked my arm violently to the side.

Excruciating pain exploded from my shoulder. My vision blurred, and all I could hear was my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart. My arm hung at an unnatural angle, the pain burning through my nerves like fire.

Damn it, where the hell did this water come from?

I tried to stand, but the pain was so intense that I could barely move. The bathroom lights were blinding, and tears mixed with sweat blurred my vision. I could only lie helplessly on the cold floor, waves of pain crashing over me again and again.

"Elena!" My voice was trembling and weak, almost swallowed by the pain. I knew I needed help, but at that moment, all I could do was wait, wait for someone to find me in my distress.

Elena rushed into the bathroom when she heard my cry. Seeing my arm hanging at an unnatural angle, she immediately called the Reynolds' private driver to take me to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

After my arm was set back in place, the doctor recommended that I undergo a more comprehensive examination. I sat alone in the VIP waiting area while they ran additional tests. Across the room, a young couple whispered to each other, their foreheads touching intimately. My chest tightened with envy for their genuine connection. Despite my Hollywood Hills mansion and billionaire husband, I'd never experienced that kind of true love.

I twisted the wedding band on my finger—a beautiful prison symbolizing our transaction rather than affection.

My phone rang. "Alexander Reynolds" flashed across the screen. I answered silently.

"Morgan, where the hell are you?" His voice was controlled but edged with impatience—the same tone he used with tardy business associates. "You said 10 o'clock."

I glanced at the time: 10:05. Just five minutes late, but apparently the CEO of Reynolds Media Group couldn't spare even that.

"Could we reschedule?" I closed my eyes against a fresh wave of pain. "I injured my arm today—"

"YOU asked for the divorce, Morgan." His laughter was sharp and dismissive. "YOU said you'd deliver those 'damn divorce papers' today. What did I tell you last week?"

I remembered his exact words: Don't waste my time with emotional manipulation. If you want more resources for your screenwriting career, we can discuss that. But I won't accept emotional blackmail.

He thought I was using divorce to negotiate, as if my leaving would somehow hurt him. Since our wedding day, ending this arrangement had been his greatest wish.

Five years of waiting. A wish deserves to be granted at last.

"You're right," I said, steadying my voice despite the pain in my shoulder. "I'll be at Reynolds Tower in thirty minutes."

"Don't bother," Alexander replied. I could hear his luxury car's engine purring in the background. "Olivia's having her final post-treatment evaluation at the hospital today. I need to be there myself."

Of course, Olivia took priority. How many check-ups has she had now? A million? For three months, my husband has split his time perfectly between work, our house, and the hospital. I understand why he cares so much about her treatment results.

If her health had improved enough, Alexander could finally convince his grandmother Victoria that Olivia, not me, should be the Reynolds family bride.

"Then I'll bring the papers to the hospital," I said, hanging up before he could object.

I moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing at the sprawling Los Angeles cityscape. I couldn't control falling in love with Alexander, but I could force myself to walk away.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. What illusions had I been clinging to? That the Hollywood Hills mansion was mine? That the media empire husband truly belonged to me? What a cruel joke.

My life changed the moment I was eight. The Montgomery family didn't choose me out of love. I was selected from the foster system like a rare medical specimen—my immune cells a perfect match for Olivia Montgomery. To them, I wasn't a child. I was a living, breathing pharmacy, defined by hospital corridors and endless medical procedures. My worth measured in milliliters of stem cells, not in dreams or hopes.

At twenty-three, with a screenplay that had just caught Hollywood's fleeting attention, I made a calculated trade. My medical compatibility for a marriage to Alexander. The Montgomery family and Alexander agreed quickly—terrified of losing their most precious medical resource.

In my naivety, I'd believed sacrifice might eventually earn his love.

I unzipped my handbag and stared at the two files inside: the divorce papers I'd prepared to deliver and the medical report I'd just received.

I’m pregnant.