Divorced By My Billionaire Ex, Pregnant With His Twins

Olivia POV

Third time. Third time on this table, feet in the stirrups, staring at the ceiling tile with the water stain shaped like a fist, waiting for the doctor to extract my eggs again.

Two years ago it was a different room and a different kind of waiting. Dr. Nazari sat on the rolling stool with her tablet in her lap and told me the pregnancy I had already named was over. Damian’s chair stayed empty the entire time. He had a call he could not move. I told him it was fine. I sat there alone while she explained why the heartbeat had stopped and what came next, and I made excuses for him before he ever asked for any.

I woke up with my hand pressed flat against my stomach, the way I do every time that memory finds me at four in the morning.

Another transfer has already been done. This morning we get the results — whether the embryo fertilized or failed again. Today, I tell myself, will be different.

Well… I've told myself that every time for five years — every anniversary he forgot, every dinner I ate alone across from an empty chair, every gift I wrapped and watched him keep aside without really looking at it. We married for the families, for the business. Damian has never been unkind. He provides everything, treats me with perfect respect, never once embarrasses me in public. He just never loved me the way I fell in love with him. 

Natural conception never worked for us. At the fifth year of negative tests and quiet disappointment, the Sterlings started asking when they would have an heir. Damian was the one who suggested IVF. “The company needs certainty,” he said. I told myself it meant he finally wanted a future that included me. Just like telling myself that 'every day would be different', I told myself that for five years, through every forgotten anniversary, every dinner across from an empty chair, and every gift he opened without really looking at it.

One minute after I sat at the waiting lounge at Lumen Fertility, my phone buzzed.

I’ll be Running behind. Still stuck at the Ashcombe walkthrough with the design team. Meet you there — save me a seat. — D

The same shape of excuse, the same polite distance; just like the day the doctor told me our first pregnancy was over. 

The Ashcombe is Sterling Group's newest hotel property, five minutes from the clinic, still mid-renovation, the kind of site visit that usually eats an entire morning. I read the text twice, and something in me — some small, stupid, hopeful thing that's survived five years of exactly this — decides that if he can't come to me today, of all days, I can go to him instead. Just for ten minutes. Just to walk back together, so that whatever the results say, we hear them side by side.

I leave the lounge, take the elevator down, and drive the five minutes to the Ashcombe myself.

The lobby is half-draped in construction plastic. Chandeliers sit wrapped in padding. A skeleton crew moves furniture under the low winter light. The young woman at the concierge desk has her badge still crooked from the morning rush. She looks up, recognizes me, and does not question Mrs. Sterling.

“Mr. Sterling is on nine,” she says. “Private suite. You know the way.”

“Thank you,” I answer, and my voice sounds almost normal.

The ninth floor is quiet and unfinished. Most doors are still taped shut for paint. Number 904 stands cracked open an inch. A housekeeping cart sits abandoned in the hall outside it like whoever pushed it there left in a hurry.

I hear her laugh before I understand what I am hearing.

“Damian.” Soft. Pleased. Nothing about blueprints or design teams in the sound at all.

I push the door the rest of the way open before I decide to.

Talia sits on the edge of the long walnut conference table, completely bare, legs open, a stolen pillow tucked under her lower back. She stretches against it while Damian stands between her thighs with his back to me, trousers shoved down, driving into her in hard, steady thrusts that shift the heavy table. Her hands grip the edge. Every time he bottoms out she makes a low, broken sound. His hands hold her hips. The wet slap of skin fills the room. His shirt hangs open. The Ashcombe blueprints still lie rolled on a chair beside his discarded jacket.

She rocks forward to meet every thrust and he groans her name into the side of her neck—rough, hungry, nothing like the controlled man who has shared my bed for five years.

Talia Duval. The face from the photograph I found years ago in the back of a desk drawer and never mentioned. The girl he grew up with. His first love, the one who left for Paris. The one I was always after, never instead of.

She sees me first. Her body does not freeze. She looks almost pleased, stretching fuller against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and unapologetic. She does not cover herself.

Damian is the one who moves. He pulls out, reaches for his shirt, and the first words out of his mouth are not my name.

“What are you doing here?” His voice comes out sharp, almost accusing. “You were supposed to be at the clinic. I told you I would meet you there.”

Heat floods my neck and the backs of my eyes. I cover part of my face with one hand.

“You didn’t come,” I say. My voice is flatter than I feel. “So I came to you…”

“You should have waited.” He says it fast, like the sentence has been loaded for weeks. “Olivia, this is not something you were supposed to walk into. If you had stayed put like I asked…”

“Like you asked.” Something that has been folding quietly inside me for five years finishes folding. “You’re angry that I found you?”

He drags a hand down his face. For a second something that might be shame crosses his expression before he locks it down. “I did not want you to see this. Not like this.”

“That is not the same as being sorry it happened.”

He does not answer. The silence answers for him the same way it has answered every quiet cruelty for five years.

Behind him Talia still has not moved. One hand trails absently along her thigh. She holds my gaze, calm and faintly satisfied, then says, soft and clear,

“Maybe you should go.”

I look at him one last time. I do not say anything else.

I turn and walk out.

I cannot believe what I just saw.

Three steps into the hallway my legs forget how to work. My shoulder hits the wall hard and I stay there longer than I mean to, breathing through my mouth because my nose has already started to betray me. The floor feels like it is tilting. My hands are shaking so badly I have to press them against the wall to keep them still. I fix my eyes on the ordinary things on the cart—a folded towel, a bottle of glass cleaner—and force myself forward past the taped doors and the sound of her voice still hanging in the air behind me.

My phone starts ringing in my hand. Lumen Fertility. I stare at the screen until the call dies. Then I keep walking toward the elevator like the floor is not still moving under my feet, and I know with sudden cold certainty that nothing about today is going to be different the way I hoped. The results are waiting. Damian is not. And the woman on the table already told me exactly where I stand.