Longueira Keyshan Danielle

For three years, Serena Cole warmed Victor Ashford's bed, carried his child in secret, and watched him publicly propose to her own sister on live television. The diamond ring satisfies Harper's 80-carat demand. The venue is the rooftop garden Serena designed for their anniversary. The champagne? The same vintage she'd saved for the day she planned to tell him about the baby. "Harper is the only woman I've ever truly loved," Victor declared to forty million viewers, pulling Serena's sister into a passionate kiss. Serena's hand moved instinctively to her still-flat stomach, where their eight-week secret grew. The remote control slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering against the marble floor of the penthouse she'd called home for three years. *His* penthouse. Never hers. She'd been so careful. So patient. Victor said he wasn't ready for commitment, so she waited. He said marriage was just a piece of paper, so she agreed. He said keeping their relationship private protected them both, so she stayed hidden—the invisible girlfriend, the convenient lover, the fool. Now she understood. She wasn't being protected. She was being *contained*. Her phone buzzed. A message from Harper: *"Did you see? Aren't you happy for me, sis? 💍 Victor says you can keep working as his assistant. He knows how much you need the job."* Assistant. That's what everyone thought she was. Victor's efficient, forgettable personal assistant. Harper had no idea Serena had been sharing Victor's bed, his secrets, his promises of "someday." Another buzz. This time from Victor: *"Work trip extended. Back in two weeks. Don't wait up."* The same lie he'd told her three days ago, when he'd kissed her goodbye and said he had a business emergency in Singapore. He was thirty floors below her right now, on his knees before her sister. Serena walked to the bedroom—their bedroom—and pulled out the pregnancy test she'd hidden in her jewelry box. Two pink lines. Undeniable proof of three years of lies. She had two choices: beg for scraps of a man who'd never been hers, or burn it all down. The penthouse door clicked open behind her. "Serena." A deep, unfamiliar voice. "I believe we need to talk about your exit strategy." She spun around. A man stood in the doorway—tall, dark-haired, with eyes like frozen steel. He wore a black suit that cost more than her annual salary, and he looked at her like he could see straight through to her bones. "Who the hell are you?" "Dominic Ashford." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Victor's older brother. And I have a proposal that will make him regret every second he wasted on your sister."