Marriage with the Dying Billionaire

The gavel struck with a resounding finality, sending tremors through my entire being.

“You are sentenced death penalty by the court, Mrs. Dionne Carté-Gadot.”

I'm fucking pregnant. I can't be!

A wave of cold dread crashed over me. My legs trembled as I shot up from my seat, eyes darting wildly around the courtroom. My breath hitched, my voice raw from hours of pleading. But it didn’t matter. The decision had been made.

“No—wait, please!” I cried out, but the officers were on me in seconds, gripping my arms like iron shackles.

I fought against their hold, but it was futile. The chains around my wrists clanked as I struggled, my vision blurring with unshed tears. My knees buckled beneath me, and the world around me dimmed in a cacophony of whispers, camera flashes, and the hollow echo of my own despair.

Then came the darkness.

Hours later, I found myself locked inside a city jail, awaiting my execution. The days blurred together, filled with sleepless nights, cold stone walls, and the suffocating weight of injustice. I was accused of massacring a group of farmers—men who had once worked for me before they spread lies and slander that ruined my name. But I hadn’t killed them. I had no blood on my hands, yet here I was, condemned to die.

I curled into myself on the tattered mattress, my hands cradling my stomach. I had been three months pregnant when they dragged me here.

“God, please,” I whispered into the darkness.

A voice pulled me from my despair.

“What’s your story?”

I turned to see a woman, another inmate, her eyes sharp with curiosity. I hesitated, then, with nothing left to lose, I told her everything. My trial. My ruined reputation. My husband’s betrayal. And now, my child’s uncertain fate.

Three weeks passed in excruciating limbo. Then, the torment began.

The other detainees saw me as nothing more than entertainment. They jeered, mocked, and, eventually, they struck. First, it was a shove. Then a punch. And then it became a daily occurrence.

One night, the pain in my abdomen became unbearable. I screamed, clutching my stomach as I collapsed onto the cold floor. Blood pooled beneath me. My baby—my innocent child—was gone. My fourth miscarriage.

Something inside me snapped.

I had lost too much. I refused to be broken any longer. The grief and anger hardened into steel, and I fought back. Every strike against me, I returned. Every taunt, I silenced. The guards punished me for my defiance, but I welcomed their blows. Pain no longer frightened me. I had lost everything.

Then, on the day of my execution, he appeared.

Francis Troillan.

A man dressed in an impeccable suit, his sharp gaze piercing through the bars of my cell.

“You’re an interesting woman,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes, too exhausted for riddles.

“What do you want?” My voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

He smirked.

“I want you to carry my child.”

A bitter laugh bubbled up from my throat.

“Are you insane? I’m scheduled to die in hours.”

His smirk widened.

“Not if you accept my offer. I can help you escape. But in return, you’ll be my surrogate.”

It was absurd. A cruel joke, surely. And yet, when I looked into his eyes, I saw something dangerous. Something real.

Desperation clawed at my chest. A chance. A chance to live. To take back what was stolen from me.

“Fine,” I rasped.

He inclined his head.

“Good choice.”

That night, I was granted my last meal—anything I wanted. A final mockery of kindness before death. I ate in silence, my mind racing.

Then, as if orchestrated by fate itself, chaos erupted.

Fire.

Screams filled the air as flames engulfed the prison. The smell of smoke and burning flesh choked the corridors. The gates burst open in the frenzy, and I ran in the middle of the chaos. I ran as if my life depended on it—because it did.

Through the thick smoke, I saw him. Francis, leaning casually against a sports car in the parking lot, as if this were nothing more than a business transaction.

“Get in,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, I did.

He drove like the devil himself was chasing us, and maybe he was. But we made it out. And for the first time in a long time, I breathed.

Weeks passed in the security of Francis’s mansion. I lived in the lap of luxury, yet I never forgot the cost of my freedom. I was bound to him now, a pawn in whatever twisted game he played.

But my mind was elsewhere. I needed to see my home. To know if anything of my old life remained.

The day I returned to my mansion, dread curled in my stomach. The gates were open. The front door ajar. Something was wrong.

I stepped inside, my pulse hammering. The air was thick with betrayal. And then I heard them.

Upstairs. In my bedroom.

My best friend, Sharon. And my ex-husband, Pierre Gadot.

I pressed myself against the doorframe, listening as Sharon’s voice drifted through the room, each word a dagger to my heart.

“Daddy, is there an update on your ex-wife? I heard she's pregnant for the fourth time. We should let her suffer a miscarriage again!"

My blood ran cold.

The walls of my world shattered, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

THEY DID THIS.