My Husband Denied My Pregnancy to Protect His First Love

I sat in the driver’s seat of my car for ten minutes before I finally went inside. The rain was drumming hard against the windshield, but I didn't feel the chill. My hands were shaking. I looked down at the small plastic wand resting in my palm.

Two pink lines.

Pregnant.

A bubbly, warm feeling expanded in my chest. After three years of a quiet, hollow marriage, I was finally going to give Enzo Shaw a child. I tucked the test safely into my designer purse and hurried into the private parking garage.

The private elevator hummed smoothly, taking me up to the penthouse we shared. I had the whole evening planned out. I was going to make homemade lasagna. I’d carefully peel the organic tomatoes and avoid any heavy spices that triggered Enzo’s chronic stomach ulcers. I would light the expensive candles he liked. I would hand him a small gift box with the test inside.

Maybe, just maybe, this baby would finally make him look at me. Truly look at me. Not as a convenient substitute, but as his wife.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open. I stepped into the foyer and stopped dead in my tracks.

Something was wrong.

The penthouse usually smelled of cedar and Enzo’s sharp, clean cologne. Today, the air was choked with a heavy, sweet perfume. Vanilla and synthetic roses. My stomach did a nervous flip.

I walked further in. A mountain of designer luggage was piled on the pristine marble floor. Louis Vuitton trunks and Chanel garment bags, covered in airline tags from Charles de Gaulle. I gripped my purse tighter and walked into the living room.

And there she was.

Isabella Montgomery. My older sister. The golden child. The woman who had abandoned Enzo at the altar three years ago to chase a glamorous modeling career in Paris, leaving me to take the fall and marry him to save both families from humiliation.

She was sitting on my custom velvet sofa. She looked thinner, but her hair was perfectly styled in effortless blonde waves. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. When she saw me, her crying magically stopped. Her red lips twitched into a tiny, victorious smirk.

“Blaire,” she whispered. Her voice was breathy, fragile, and entirely fake. “I’m so sorry.”

Before I could even ask her what she was doing in my home, heavy footsteps clicked against the hardwood floor. Enzo walked into the room.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his jaw was clenched tight. For seven years, I had loved this man from the shadows. For three years, I had been his devoted, invisible caretaker. I managed his diets, his home, and his life. I thought my loyalty meant something.

But as he looked at me, his dark eyes were completely empty.

He didn't notice the flush in my cheeks. He didn't see the nervous joy I had brought into the room. He just walked straight up to me, his face a mask of cold indifference, and held out a thick manila folder.

“Sign these,” he demanded. His voice was flat. No greeting. No warmth.

“Enzo?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. “What is this?”

“Divorce papers,” he said, not missing a single beat.

The words hit me like a physical punch to the gut. All the air rushed out of my lungs. I stared at the yellow folder in his hand, then up at his handsome, unyielding face.

“Divorce?” I choked out. “Why? What happened?”

Enzo sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at me like I was a slow, annoying employee.

“Isabella is back, Blaire. Paris was incredibly hard on her. She went through a terrible ordeal, and she needs a safe place to stay. She needs me.”

He glanced back at Isabella, and for a split second, his cold eyes softened. It was a look he had never, ever given me.

I felt the heat rise in my chest, burning my throat. “She needs you?” I repeated, my voice cracking. “I’m your wife, Enzo. We’ve been married for three years.”

“It was a temporary arrangement,” he snapped, his patience instantly vanishing. “You knew that from the beginning. You stepped in to save face. Now she’s back, and things are going to return to normal.”

Temporary.

Three years of my life. Three years of nursing him through painful ulcer flare-ups, smiling for the paparazzi, and playing the perfect, obedient wife. Reduced to a temporary placeholder, discarded the second the real prize returned.

My hand drifted down, resting instinctively over my flat stomach. The pregnancy test felt like a lead weight inside my purse. I was carrying his child.

“I want you to pack your things,” Enzo ordered, his voice cutting through my thoughts like ice. “I’ve already had my assistant transfer a generous settlement to your account. But you need to be out by tonight.”

I blinked, feeling a sudden, strange ringing in my ears. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Isabella is exhausted. She needs the master bedroom.”

I looked past his shoulder. Isabella was watching us. She sniffled delicately, wiping away a nonexistent tear, but her eyes were bright and hard with triumph. She was taking back her favorite toys. And my husband was eagerly handing them over.

The desperate, pleading words died in my throat. I looked at Enzo, really looked at him, and the warm, hopeful bubbles in my chest popped. They were replaced by a sudden, freezing numbness.