I Was His Trophy Wife Until His First Love Returned

Just as I discovered I was pregnant, my billionaire husband's runaway bride returned.

"I'm three months pregnant with Harrison's child," Camille smirked, sliding a $7 million check across the table. "Return what was never yours."

For two years, I played the perfect stand-in wife, enjoying his black card and his bed. But when Harrison stopped coming home, I knew my time was up. His mother paid me to leave. Fine. I refused to let my baby be a pawn.

I booked a secret appointment at the abortion clinic.

But just as the anesthesia hit, a furious voice shattered the room.

"Sophie!" Harrison roared, his eyes red with madness. "Don't you dare touch my child!"

——

"Camille Prescott is back," my best friend said over the phone. "Her flight landed this morning. Half of Manhattan's old-money showed up to her her welcome party."

"Who?" I asked, distracted.

A jeweler was currently clasping a pink-diamond necklace around my neck.

The suite Harrison had bought at auction had arrived that morning. It almost enough to buy out my family's entire business.

The center stone caught the light, throwing pink sparks all over the mirror.

Harrison Whitmore was a wonderful man.

I solemnly swore I would never leave him. I also wished him excellent health and a very long life.

My friend went dead silent.

"Camille," she finally said. "The woman he never got over."

My hand froze on the necklace.

Oh.

That Camille.

Camille was the golden child of the Prescott family. She and Harrison had grown up together, and everyone just assumed they’d tie the knot.

She was bold, gorgeous, and absolutely allergic to being told what to do.

Three days before their engagement party, she ran.

Honestly, I should probably send her flowers every anniversary. If Camille hadn't pulled a vanishing act, Harrison would never have needed a last-minute replacement bride.

And a gorgeous CEO who worked around the clock, was highly enthusiastic in bed, and rarely got in the way of my shopping sprees would have never fallen into my lap.

Camille came home on Monday.

That same night, Harrison locked himself in his study until past midnight, staring at the exact same page of a proposal for almost an hour.

"Take Mr. Whitmore some coffee," I told Mrs. Doyle.

On Tuesday, Harrison didn't come home at all.

On Wednesday, he missed the weekly dinner at the Whitmore estate.

That was when it hit me: my cushy job might soon be on the line.

Right before dinner was served, Harrison's father urged me to call him.

I tried three times.

Each call went straight to voicemail.

Great. Was I about to be unemployed?

I’d always known the drill. Harrison was the boss. I spent his money and handled the duties that came with the title.

In public, I showed up to galas and played the part perfectly whenever an event required a Mrs. Whitmore on his arm.

At home, I kept his life running smoothly, remembered all the birthdays, and plastered on a smile through dinners with his insufferable relatives.

"Harrison is handling an international acquisition," I lied smoothly his mother. "He may still be at the office."

Mrs. Whitmore frowned. "Sophie, you need to pay more attention to his health instead of shopping all day."

"Of course."

I seriously deserved an Oscar.

My husband was supposedly entertaining his first love while I covered his absence at family dinner.

"There's some hearty chicken soup in the kitchen," she added. "Go learn how to make it so you can cook it for Harrison at home."

I forced a smile "I'd love to."

Internally, I made a rude gesture.

The Langley family was worth more than fifteen million dollars. That sounded impressive until you compared it with the Whitmores, whose holdings were worth tens of billions of dollars.

Mrs. Whitmore had never thought I was good enough for her son.

I only put up with her for the paycheck.

Tomorrow, I would buy two limited-edition bags.

Harrison owed me for the two hours I had spent standing in that kitchen.

Harrison was not at the penthouse when I returned.

Mrs. Doyle looked at me with unmistakable pity.

Camille had returned, and Harrison had vanished for two nights. The housekeeper had done the math.

"Would you like something to eat, ma'am?"

"Yes. Two bowls of oatmeal with dates and almonds, please."

I was starving. I never managed to eat a full meal at those family dinners.

Mrs. Doyle always had food waiting after my visits to the Whitmore estate. She knew exactly how those evenings went.

I decided I needed another piece of jewelry as compensation for emotional damage.

When she brought the tray upstairs, she hesitated. "Should I call Mr. Whitmore and ask when he'll be home?"

The atmosphere practically demanded tragedy.

"I already tried. He wouldn't answer." I lowered my eyes. "He must be with Camille."

Mrs. Doyle sighed all the way out of the room.

Was I actually heartbroken that my husband was staying out all night?

Not really.

I had a much bigger problem on my hands.

I was pregnant.

My period had always been precise, and now it was a week late.

Harrison's birthday was the following week. I had planned to tell him then. Given current events, I changed my mind.

We had been married for two years and had never used birth control, yet I had never conceived. I had even seen a doctor once, convinced something was wrong. She told me there was no obvious problem and to be patient.

Apparently, the baby had chosen excellent timing.

The first trimester could be uncertain. I would tell no one until I passed twelve weeks—not my mother, not my best friend, and certainly not Harrison.

Once the pregnancy was secure, the Whitmores would never allow Harrison to discard a pregnant wife for an old flame. Reputation mattered too much.

Yes, I intended to stay married.

Why on earth would I trade private jets, a yacht, and endless couture for a life where I actually had to look at price tags?

If Harrison cheated, I could live with it.

If Camille got pregnant, I'd even offer to babysit. Hell, I could be the perfect stepmom.

Aren't I just the most generous wife?