"Daddy, The Baby Went Flat!" When The Billionaire Ripped Off His Wife's Pregnant Belly at The Gala, He Discovered The Terrifying Monster Sleeping in His Bed

The foyer of the Vance mansion was deathly quiet, save for the patter of rain leaking through the open entryway. The scent of ozone and cordite hung heavy in the air.

Harrison stepped over the marble floor, his eyes sweeping the grand entrance. Behind the central staircase, he found one of his private security guards unconscious, bleeding from a clean strike to the back of the skull. He was alive, but out cold.

A muffled sound echoed from the grand library down the hall.

Harrison moved with lethal, calculated silence, his boots making no sound on the hardwood floors. He reached the library doors, keeping his back against the mahogany wall, and peered through the crack.

Victoria was there, now wrapped in an oversized trench coat, having discarded her torn designer dress. But she was not smiling. She stood before Arthur Blackwood, who was casually pouring himself a glass of twenty-year-old scotch from Harrison’s decanter.

Arthur was immaculate. His bespoke charcoal three-piece suit was dry, his silver-streaked hair combed back with perfection. Peeking just above his silk collar, the scaly black tail of a dragon tattoo twisted up his neck. His eyes—one piercing sapphire, the other an eerie emerald—reflected the warm amber light of the fireplace.

Two heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear stood near the tall windows, their submachine guns lowered.

"You idiot, Veronika," Arthur said smoothly, taking a slow sip of the scotch. "A tea spill? You brought down a four-hundred-million-dollar acquisition scheme because you couldn't control a five-year-old child?"

"She spilled it on purpose, Arthur!" Victoria hissed, her voice shrill with defensive fury. "That little bitch knew something was wrong! And Harrison was right there! What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to wait for tomorrow," Arthur replied, his voice dropping into a razor-thin growl. "Tomorrow, Maya would have received her first dose. Within forty-eight hours, she would have been hospitalized with acute pulmonary distress. Harrison would have been completely incapacitated by grief. The trust would have fallen to you as the pregnant widow, with me as the appointed conservator."

Arthur set the crystal glass down on the desk with a sharp *clack*.

"Instead, you are standing here with your silicone belly on the lawn, the police outside being detained by my paid deputies, and Harrison Vance knows our faces."

"We can still salvage it," Victoria pleaded, pulling a flash drive from her pocket. "I still have the blackmail tape. The footage from Evelyn’s final night. If Harrison goes to the FBI, we release it. It makes him look like the one who administered the lethal dose! The public will crucify him!"

"There is no blackmail tape, Veronika," Arthur said softly.

Victoria froze. "What?"

Arthur sighed, drawing a suppressed Walther PPK from beneath his jacket. "Harrison is a brilliant man, but he is emotional. If he sees that tape, he won't negotiate. He will hunt us to the ends of the earth. And dead men don't file police reports."

Arthur raised the weapon.

"Arthur, no—" Victoria gasped, her eyes going wide.

*Thwip.*

The suppressed shot was barely louder than a cough. Victoria staggered backward, clutching her chest, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal. She collapsed onto the Persian rug, the blood pooling rapidly around her fingers.