My CEO Husband's Assistant Thought I Was His Sugar Baby

Lately I'd been feeling sick in the mornings. Throwing up everything I ate. I thought maybe I had food poisoning or the flu or something normal like that. But it kept happening. Every single morning for two weeks straight.

So I went to the hospital.

The doctor smiled at me when she came back with the test results. "Congratulations. You're pregnant."

I just sat there on that examination table with the paper crinkling under me and stared at her. Pregnant. After two years of trying. After two years of negative tests and disappointment and my husband James telling me it's okay, we have time, don't worry about it.

"How far along?" I asked.

"Eight weeks. The baby looks healthy. But you'll need to be careful. Avoid stress. No heavy lifting. And definitely avoid any trauma to the abdomen."

Eight weeks. I'd been pregnant for eight weeks and didn't even know it.

I cried right there in the doctor's office. Happy tears. The kind that surprise you because you didn't know you had that much feeling stored up inside.

At home I couldn't sit still. Kept touching my stomach even though there was nothing to feel yet. Just me and this tiny secret growing inside me that James didn't know about.

I wanted to tell him in person. Not over the phone. Not in a text. Face to face so I could see his expression when I said it.

So I made his favorite meal. Chicken alfredo with extra garlic bread. Packed it in the blue lunchbox we'd bought together in Italy on our honeymoon. Tucked the ultrasound photo in my jacket pocket where it would be safe.

The drive to Maxwell Tower took twenty minutes. I spent the whole time practicing what I'd say. "We're pregnant." No, too clinical. "We're having a baby." Better. Simple. Clear.

The parking garage was almost full. I found a spot on the fifth level and checked myself in the rearview mirror. Messy ponytail. Jeans. Old sweatshirt with a coffee stain on the sleeve. No makeup.

I looked exactly like what I was. A regular woman bringing lunch to her husband.

The receptionist at the front desk looked at me like I'd tracked mud across her nice clean floor.

"Can I help you?" Cold voice. The kind that said you don't belong here.

"I'm here to see James Maxwell."

"Mr. Maxwell isn't accepting visitors today. If you'd like to schedule..."

"I'm his wife."

She looked at me. Up and down. Slow. Taking in the jeans and the sweatshirt and the lunchbox in my hands.

"Of course you are," she said. Not believing a single word. "Security..."

"Rebecca?"

I turned around. A woman was walking toward me. Late twenties. Absolutely stunning in a way that made every other woman in the room look underdressed. Black designer suit. Heels that probably cost more than my car payment. Hair pulled back so tight it made her cheekbones look sharper.

Her badge said Ryan Chen, Chief of Staff.

Relief hit me so hard I actually smiled. "Hi. I'm Rebecca. I brought lunch for..."

Her hand clamped around my upper arm. Hard. Hard enough that I felt her nails dig into my skin through my sweatshirt.

"We need to talk," she said. "Now."

"What? I just..."

She yanked me away from the reception desk before I could finish the sentence. Pulled me down a side hallway with a grip that said don't even think about arguing. I stumbled trying to keep up with her in these stupid heels I'd worn because I thought they looked nice.

"Ryan, what are you doing? Let go..."

She shoved me through a door into a conference room and slammed it behind us. The sound echoed. Final. Like a cell door closing.

"How much?" she asked.

I blinked. "What?"

"How much money do you want? Ten thousand? Twenty?" She pulled out her phone. Started tapping something. "I can wire it right now if you leave and never come back."

My brain was trying to catch up but it couldn't quite get there. "I don't... I'm not here for money. I'm here to see my husband..."

"Cut the act." She stepped closer. I stepped back. Hit the wall. "I know exactly what you are. Some girl he met at a club or a bar. Slept with him a few times. Now you're showing up claiming you're pregnant trying to trap him."

The world tilted sideways for a second.

"That's not... no. We're married. I'm his wife. We've been married for two years..."

Her laugh was sharp. Mean. The kind of laugh that cuts.

"His wife. Really. Let me tell you something about Mr. Maxwell. I've been his Chief of Staff for five years. I run this company when he can't. I know everything about him. His schedule. His deals. His life. And he's getting engaged to Eleanor Whitmore next month. I've been helping him plan it for weeks."

Eleanor. His ex-girlfriend from three years ago. They'd broken up before James and I even started dating.

"That's not true," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Eleanor and James broke up years ago. We got married in..."

The slap came out of nowhere.

My head snapped to the side. I tasted blood. The lunchbox fell from my hands and hit the floor. The lid popped off and pasta sauce exploded everywhere. Red all over the white carpet. All over my shoes.

"I said shut up," Ryan said. Her voice was ice. "You're just another whore trying to ruin a good man's life."

My face burned where she'd hit me. Tears were already coming and I hated that. Hated that my body was doing this without my permission.

"Please," I said. "Just call him. Call James. He'll tell you..."

"Mr. Maxwell is in Singapore closing a two hundred million dollar deal. He doesn't have time for gold digging sluts."

She grabbed my purse off my shoulder. Dumped everything out on the conference table. My wallet. My keys. Lip gloss. Tampons. And the pregnancy test I'd taken this morning just to see the two lines one more time.

Ryan picked it up. Looked at it. Her expression went cold.

"Positive. Of course." She crushed it in her hand. Plastic cracking. "You can buy these things online. Fake positives. Did you really think this would work?"

"It's real," I said. My voice was shaking now. Everything was shaking. "I'm eight weeks pregnant. I have an ultrasound..."

I reached for my jacket pocket. She grabbed my wrist. Twisted it. I cried out.

"Where is it?"

"My pocket..."

She let go of my wrist and shoved her hand into my jacket. Pulled out the ultrasound photo. The one the doctor had given me three hours ago. The one with the tiny blob that was going to be our baby.

Ryan looked at it for exactly two seconds.

Then she ripped it in half.

"No..."

She ripped it again. And again. Until it was just pieces. Confetti. She let them fall to the floor.

"Your baby doesn't exist," she said. Each word sharp and clear. "And after today, neither will you."

She pulled out her phone. "Security? I need everyone on the forty-second floor. Now. We have a situation."

I tried to run for the door. She was faster. Grabbed me by the hair and yanked me back. I screamed. Actually screamed. But the room was soundproof and nobody was coming.