My CEO Ex-Wife Killed for Love,Now She Wants Me Back

When I found out—again—that the baby in my wife's belly belonged to her and her lover, I didn't lose my mind like before.

I didn't threaten her. Didn't trick her into terminating.

This time, I quietly helped her through the pregnancy. Made sure she delivered safely.

And just like that, I became the punchline of high society. A thousand gossip rags feasted on my humiliation.

Every cheating trophy wife dreamed of finding a husband as generous as me.

Every mistress in our circles burned incense, praying she'd seduce someone with a wife like mine.

And the other men who'd married into wealthy families? They looked at me like I was a disgrace to our kind.

Ten months passed. She gave birth without complications.

When Greta Jenner emerged from the delivery room, she kissed the back of my hand—tender as always.

"Thanks to you taking such good care of me, Noel's baby came out healthy and beautiful."

She smiled. "Don't worry. He only wants to be a father. He won't threaten your position as the Jenner family's son-in-law. You're still the one I love most."

Everyone assumed I'd loved Greta so completely, so pathetically, that when I couldn't beat the other man, I simply joined them.

But I was the only one who knew the truth.

This baby existed because Grandma Evelyn Jenner had called in a life-debt—the one I owed her from years ago—and ordered me to protect it.

The Jenner family's firstborn son had arrived.

Which meant the divorce agreement she'd promised me should finally take effect.

1.

The night before Greta went into labor, they'd pumped me full of sedatives and bone-weakening drugs—insurance against me harming her or the child.

When the drugs wore off and I opened my eyes, she was cradling the baby, face glowing with joy.

"Honey, Grandma already picked a name for our son. Just sign here and we can register the birth."

She handed me the certificate.

The moment I saw the name—John Swanson—the fog in my brain burned away.

John.

John.

That was the name I'd chosen for my own unborn son. A name that meant remember your original heart. It carried all my hopes for him, all my dreams for our love.

It was also the name recorded in the Jenner family genealogy—reserved for firstborn sons for thirteen generations.

Years ago, I'd taken a knife meant for Greta when kidnappers had her. The wound damaged something vital. After that, I couldn't... perform the way I used to.

Our first child—conceived through IVF—had made it to seven months.

Then one night, Greta decided to "help" Noel Swanson when he'd been drugged with an aphrodisiac. She spent the night with him. The hemorrhaging that followed forced an emergency termination.

That baby had already formed. A boy.

I'd planned to give him a proper memorial, a place in the ancestral tomb.

But the fortune teller said a child lost before full term at an inauspicious time needed to wait. The timing wasn't right.

So I waited. Over a year.

Throughout this pregnancy, Greta had whispered in my ear countless times that she wanted to give John's name to this bastard child.

I never agreed.

But now, looking at the hopeful light in her eyes, all I could think about was how disgusted I was by her tears back then. How fake they must have been.

I knew Grandma Evelyn would never have chosen this name.

This was Noel's doing. He loved taking everything that was mine, and he'd planted the idea in Greta's ear.

The divorce was already set in stone. The child could keep the surname of his heartless mother—I didn't care anymore.

"Whatever. Call him what you want."

"I only have one condition. Don't list me as the father. My real son's spirit wouldn't be happy."

Greta paused. A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes.

"Bob Swanson, don't worry. I'm only using the fact that Noel shares half your bloodline. He and I never—"

She didn't finish.

A crash echoed from outside the door.

"You animal! Who gave you permission to be here?!"

Noel Swanson lay crumpled on the floor, eyes red-rimmed.

"I just wanted to see the baby."

Grandma Evelyn's cane struck him again and again.

"Get out!"

In that instant, Greta became a startled bird. She forgot she'd just given birth—forgot her own body—and shoved the baby into my arms before bolting out the door.

When she moved, I saw them: hundreds of needle marks dotting both her arms, each one the width of a child's finger. Scattered among them were self-inflicted wounds, now splitting open under the pressure.