Chasing His Pregnant Love

Ophelia’s POV

I tricked my billionaire husband into signing divorce papers—he had no idea.

"Exam documents," I lied.

His ex-wife smirked. "Boring paperwork. Don't bother reading it."

He signed without a glance.

Three years. I thought he'd learn to love me. But ever since she came back, my dinners went cold, my bed stayed empty, and he ran to her with every call.

Then I found out I was pregnant.

That same day, at the hospital, I saw him holding her hand—asking about her baby.

She was pregnant too. But only one of us mattered to him.

I'm done being her stand-in. I packed one suitcase and vanished.

When he finally read those papers, he turned the city upside down searching for me.

Too late. His wife is already a ghost—carrying his twins somewhere he'll never find.

The music is so loud my eardrums ache.

Rafferty hated noise. Hated parties. Hated anything that disrupted his carefully ordered world. Three years of marriage had taught me that much.

Yet here we were—our living room packed with strangers.

It all started when Briar came back.

"Hey, little girl!"

A man stepped in front of me, tie crooked, reeking of whiskey.

"Love the uniform." His eyes crawled over my flight suit. "But this isn't really a place for minors, you know? Wouldn't want to catch a case."

I shoved him aside.

He stumbled back. "What the f—"

I didn't bother responding. I just needed to find Rafferty. Get him to sign that document.

Then I spotted her. Center of the room, like always.

Briar Holloway.

Chestnut waves cascading down her back. Backless evening gown. That butterfly tattoo peeking out above her collarbone. Twenty-nine years old. International supermodel. Heiress to Holloway Media.

Rafferty's ex-wife.

"Ophelia!" She noticed me and glided over, smile perfectly in place. "I didn't expect you back so early. Thought you'd be at school late."

"Training ended early."

"Perfect timing, then." Her gaze lingered on my flight jacket and ponytail. "Want me to grab you a dress? Tonight's not exactly a costume party, sweetheart."

The women around her tittered behind manicured hands.

I turned and headed for the stairs without a word.

I found my husband in his study.

Rafferty Lane. The most powerful man in this city.

"I need your signature."

I placed the document in front of him, face-down, showing only the signature line on the last page.

"Flight exam paperwork from school." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Needs a family member's signature."

He didn't speak. Just picked up his pen.

My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.

His fingers brushed the edge of the paper. He was about to flip to the first page—

"Rafferty!"

The door swung open.

Briar stood in the doorway, holding a wine-red velvet dress.

"I brought something for Ophelia to change into." She walked in, draping the dress over the sofa, then turned to Rafferty with easy familiarity. "You should come down too. Everyone's asking where you are."

Rafferty's attention shifted from the document.

"Besides," Briar stepped closer, "how many documents do you sign every day? Merger deals, investment agreements, board resolutions... It's just a school form. Do you really need to read every word?"

She laughed. That condescending laugh adults give children playing house.

Rafferty was silent for two seconds.

Then he lowered his head and signed.

"Here." He pushed the document toward me.

My fingers trembled as I took it. But I held it together.

"Thank you."

He stood and left with Briar.

Three years ago, Grandmother Eloise arranged our marriage.

The first year, he was rarely home. But sometimes he'd slip into bed beside me late at night. In those moments, I'd close my eyes and pretend this was love.

The second year, things began to change. He'd tell me his schedule before business trips. He'd come home late and move quietly so he wouldn't wake me. On weekends, he'd take me to test-fly his new private jet.

I thought the ice was finally melting. I thought we were finally going to have a real marriage.

Then Briar came back.

He started coming home with lipstick on his collar. Not my color.

Some nights I'd cook dinner and wait for him. The food would go cold three times over, and he still wouldn't show. I'd text asking where he was. His reply was always the same:

"Busy."

But the next day, there he'd be in the entertainment section—photographed with Briar in some VIP lounge. Her hand on his arm. Her smile radiant.

That was when my heart went cold for good.

I was done lying to myself.

I looked at the divorce papers in front of me. His signature was right there on the page.

Soon, this would all be over.