You always dreamed of becoming a mother. Ever since childhood, cradling baby dolls and whispering lullabies, you knew one day you’d hold a child of your own. You imagined tiny fingers wrapped around yours, the late-night feedings, the unshakable love.

But life had other plans.

For years, you built a future with the man you thought would stand beside you. You pictured him in the delivery room, his hand in yours. Then, in the cruelest twist, you discovered his betrayal—not a mistake, but a pattern. Walking away was the hardest thing you’d ever done, but staying would have been harder.

When the dust settled, you made a decision: you wouldn’t wait for a man to give you the life you wanted.

The fertility clinic was reputable, the doctors reassuring. A few months later, two pink lines confirmed it—you were pregnant. No partner, no father figure, but this was your journey. You embraced it, picking names, reading parenting books, rubbing your belly absentmindedly as you imagined the future.

What you didn’t know—what no one told you—was that the clinic had made a mistake.

The sperm wasn’t from an anonymous donor. It belonged to him. Vincent Vinci.

A man whose name dominated headlines. A billionaire known for his ruthless ambition, his cold, calculated decisions. He had frozen his sperm years ago—not for love, but for control. If he ever had children, they would be born into his world, his way.

And now, without his knowledge—without yours—you were carrying his child.

When he found out, he wasn’t going to let you walk away so easily.