His Heir My Rules

September 8th

The day I divorced my cheating husband.

The final, signed papers felt hot in my hands.

As we stepped out of the courthouse, into the unforgiving sunlight, I turned to Grant Emerson. “I’m pregnant.”

He stopped dead, feet bolted to the pavement. He stared at me, his eyes churning with something I couldn’t decipher.

His voice was a tremor. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Tell you,” I said, my gaze level with his, “and let you use a child to chain me to you?”

“Grant, remember this.”

“This baby is mine. Mine alone.”

1

My marriage to Grant Emerson was a hand-me-down from my sister.

Poppy was effervescent and impulsive, a firefly in a jar who refused to be pinned down by something as archaic as a family alliance. So, she took a check for two million dollars and vanished.

My mother, Eleanor, doting on her youngest while simultaneously terrified of losing a son-in-law like Grant, shoved me forward to take her place. She acted as if any daughter from the Pierce family would suffice, as if we were interchangeable parts.

And Grant Emerson? In a city like New York, where old-money names are carved into library walls and hospital wings, his was etched the deepest.

Poppy jilting him was a public humiliation. And now they were offering him… me?

It was delusional.

But I met with him once anyway. I made my pitch, a business proposal in the guise of a life partnership. And to my unending shock, he agreed.

This year marked our fourth anniversary.

To the outside world, we were a model couple. In private, we were courteous strangers who shared a bed with the same polite distance we shared a dinner table. Even sex was an exercise in decorum.

My mother was constantly in my ear, nagging me about children, about my "uselessness." If I didn't secure him with an heir, she’d hiss, what was to stop him from running off?

I always wanted to say, Grant isn’t a dog.

And even if I wanted to leash him, did she really think he would allow it?

But I never said that.

I would just nod, my expression placid and agreeable. My meekness always infuriated her. She’d roll her eyes, her lips pursed in disgust, and sweep out of the room.

The irony, then, was that I actually did get pregnant.

2

My period was late. First by a week, then two, then a month.

Last night, I took a test. Two stark blue lines.

This morning, I went to a clinic for a blood test to be sure.

The doctor held the report.

“You’re nine weeks along. Are you planning on keeping it?”

“I think so.”

But I hesitated.

Grant didn't know. This child was never part of our meticulously crafted agreement.

I had to ask him.

So I took the report and went straight to his office downtown.

Grant was in a board meeting when I arrived. His assistant, a man of impeccable poise, showed me into the sweeping corner office, furnished me with a coffee and a plate of delicate pastries, and told me it wouldn't be long.

I lifted the porcelain cup to my lips, then paused.

Could I drink coffee while pregnant?

I had no idea.

A quick search on my phone said it was fine in moderation.

Good enough for me.

I took a small sip, the rich, bitter warmth a familiar comfort. I let out a soft sigh of satisfaction, but it was cut short by a commotion from the reception area—a rising tide of voices and a woman's sharp, piercing cry.

I opened the office door a crack and found myself looking directly at a woman being held back by security.

Her eyes, red-rimmed and furious, locked onto the space behind me. “Get Grant Emerson out here!” she screamed. “He knocks someone up and thinks he can just ghost them? Is he going to take responsibility or not?”

The volume.

The spectacle.

The sea of staring faces.

The humiliation was a physical blow.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. This has nothing to do with me, I wanted to scream back.

And then Grant was there, a sudden calm in the storm.

He moved through the crowd, his face a cold mask, and his eyes found me peeking through the doorway. In two long strides, he was in front of me, his large, elegant hand covering my eyes, blocking out the scene.

I flinched back instinctively.

With a soft click, he closed the door, shutting me inside.

I blinked into the sudden quiet.

Wait.

My husband cheated on me, got another woman pregnant, and the woman was now staging a coup in his lobby. And I wasn't supposed to be involved at all?

3

As it turned out, I was to be involved. Just not in the way I expected.

Grant dismissed the crowd with a single, cutting glance. He murmured something to the woman, then opened the door and ushered her into the office, right in front of me.

Watching his cool, unruffled demeanor, I had the absurd urge to applaud. To have an affair and handle the fallout with such brazen composure was, in its own way, a masterpiece of audacity.

The woman was striking.

Dressed in simple sweats, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail under a baseball cap. She dropped into a leather armchair, crossed her legs, and radiated an aura of "don't mess with me."

She was also undeniably beautiful, with sharp, exquisite features and a cool, defiant gaze. It was the kind of beauty that made her hard to hate.

A shame she had to open her mouth.

“So this is your wife?”

She didn't even look at me. Her words were for Grant.

“Divorce her.”

“I’m pregnant. You have to take responsibility for me.”

I felt a wry smile touch my lips. Well, I’m pregnant too. Who’s going to take responsibility for me?

By all societal logic, as the wife, I should have had the upper hand. But when a marriage becomes a battlefield, it’s often the one with the least morals who shouts the loudest.

“Sigh.”

I sighed out loud, reaching for a small, buttery cookie from the plate. It was perfectly crisp, with a hint of vanilla.

Delicious.

“Want one?” I offered, holding it out.

The woman stared at me, her expression one of pure disgust. She pointed a finger in my direction.

“Is she insane?” she asked Grant.

For the first time, a flicker of something—annoyance? frustration?—crossed Grant's perfect facade. He frowned, took my hand, and pulled me into the adjoining private lounge.

He lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter in tense silence.

“It was one time,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly.

“I was drugged at a fundraiser. It was an accident.”

“Audrey.”

He met my eyes then, his gaze unnervingly direct.

“This is my fault,” he said. “Completely. So you get to decide what happens next.”

“If you can forgive me, we’ll move past this. We’ll make it work.”

“If you can’t, we’ll get a divorce.”

The word, divorce, hung in the air. My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against my ribs. I dug my thumbnail into the soft flesh of my palm, an old, grounding habit.

“It’s your fault, right?” I asked, my voice small.

“If we get a divorce, you’ll admit that it was your fault, won’t you?”

4

Grant watched me, his expression unreadable.

He was a handsome man. More handsome than any man I’d ever met. I liked looking at him. Especially in bed, from below, watching the way his eyes would glaze over with pleasure, listening to the raw, unguarded sound of his breathing. Moments like that, I could forget everything else and just feel.

A divorce. It was a shame.

But it wasn't impossible.

“So, your choice is divorce?” he asked, his voice flat.

I nodded, gesturing vaguely toward the office beyond the door. “After all that? It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a choice, is there?”

“It’s just… my mother. You’ll tell her it was your fault, right?” I needed to hear it again.

His expression shuttered. A cold, unfamiliar distance crept into his eyes, and it made my chest ache.

But I was an expert at managing that particular ache.

A deep breath in. A slow breath out. And it was gone.

Grant stood, brushing invisible dust from his tailored suit. “Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “I’ll handle it.”

Phew.

That was a relief.

“About the divorce,” I began, my mind already shifting gears. “I don’t need much, but I want Helios Pharmaceuticals.”

“Fine.”

“And a house would be nice. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Okay.”

“Could I also have, say, fifty million?”

Grant turned back, his eyes narrowing. “You want everything, and you still want a divorce?”

He took a step closer. “Don’t divorce me, and it’s all yours anyway.”

I looked away, suddenly fascinated by my own shoes.

That’s a nice sentiment, I thought.

But you’re the one who cheated.

If you hadn’t cheated, we wouldn’t be getting a divorce.

If we weren't getting a divorce, your wife and your child would both be yours.

…Wait.

Even with a divorce, he’d still have a new wife and a new child waiting for him.

Damn.

He really was a businessman. He’d done the math. No matter what, he came out ahead.

5

Grant took care of the woman.

What they said, what he promised her, I never found out. By the time I emerged from the lounge, she was gone.

The delicious pastries were gone too. Not a single crumb left.

I eyed the empty plate mournfully.

As we were leaving, I couldn't help but grab his assistant’s arm.

“Those little cookies from earlier,” I whispered. “Could you possibly pack some for me?”

His expression was a masterclass in controlled bewilderment.

Behind me, Grant let out a short, cold laugh.

“Pack them for her,” he ordered.

The scandal was too big to contain.

By evening, my mother’s name was flashing on my screen.

The first call, I ignored.

The second, I let ring out.

On the third, I stared at the screen for a long moment before walking to the kitchen and dropping my phone into the sink full of water.

Finally. Peace.

In the silence that followed, a single thought crystallized in my mind: I was going to have this baby.

This child, a being formed from my own body, nourished by my blood, would grow into a new life. A life inextricably linked to mine.

My own flesh and blood. My family.

Why wouldn't I keep him?

Yes. I was going to keep him.

The decision filled me with a giddy, unfamiliar excitement. I went to the wine cellar and opened a bottle of Screaming Eagle I’d been saving.

Could you drink while pregnant?

Probably not.

But the internet said moderation.

So, cheers.

6

At eight o’clock, my mother descended.

The pounding on my front door was loud enough to be a public disturbance, but in this neighborhood of sprawling, isolated houses, there was no one to report it to.

I put on my headphones and turned the stereo up, letting the music wash over me. Still, I could faintly hear her muffled shrieks through the bass. I couldn't make out the words, but I knew the script by heart. It would be a familiar tirade: "The Uselessness of Audrey" and its companion piece, "The Pointlessness of Audrey's Existence."

No new material, nothing innovative, yet still profoundly exhausting to hear.

After what felt like an eternity, the pounding stopped. Some time after that, the door to my study opened.

Grant stood there. He plucked the headphones from my ears.

In one hand, he held my waterlogged phone. In the other, a brand new one, still in its box.

His face was impassive, his voice cold.

“Put your SIM card in this.”

“The lab couldn’t reach you, so they called me. Call them back.”

I tilted my head back to look up at him.

“You know, Grant, you weren’t wrong.”

“What?”

“You cheated, and that’s why we’re getting a divorce. And my mother still came here to blame me.”

He stared down at me, his jaw tight. He took a deep breath.

“I know. I’ll handle it.”

Grant’s method of “handling it” was, to put it mildly, a catastrophic failure.

I was tempted to leave him a one-star review.

My mother stormed his office building and was stopped by security in the lobby. I had just come from the lab, having pulled an all-nighter on a sample that was yielding disappointing results. My whole team was demoralized.

Grant would say this was a moment for encouragement, for a rousing speech about hope and perseverance.

“But they’re human,” I’d argued. “It’s normal to be frustrated.”

“Anyone who chooses this work has the courage to fail a thousand times and start over.”

It was that resilience that I found so captivating.

But my thoughts were interrupted by Grant’s secretary informing me that my mother had arrived, demanding to see me, and vowing not to leave until she did.

The truth was, if I didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t make me.

I took the private elevator down to the garage, got in my car, and was about to make a stealthy exit when she materialized in front of my vehicle like a phantom, her eyes glaring with feral intensity.

There was no escape. I resigned myself to buying her a coffee.

As we sat in a sterile cafe, I did a quick mental calculation. It had been 372 days since we had last seen each other. We were so close to a new record. A shame to have it broken.

“You’re divorcing Grant Emerson?” she began, no preamble.

“Yes.”

“Are you mentally ill?” The attack came out of nowhere, a zero-to-sixty of maternal rage.

The tirade continued.

“Do you have a single functioning brain cell in your head? Who do you think you are, Audrey? What makes you so special? Every man strays, every single one. What, you think you’re different? You’re going to throw this all away over some trivial little thing? You’re not just embarrassing yourself, you’re embarrassing me.”

“It’s your fault, you know. You couldn’t hold on to him. You couldn’t manage him.”

“I told you, being smart isn’t enough! You have no social graces, no common sense. You’re stubborn, inflexible…”

“Everyone always said I favored Poppy, but if you were even half as considerate, half as thoughtful as she is—”

“You would still favor her,” I cut in, finishing her sentence.

She froze, speechless for a second, before her voice rose to a shriek.

“Audrey, must you always be so contrary?”

No.

I was just tired. I wanted to sleep.

I was pregnant, and the tiny cluster of cells inside me needed to grow.

I stood up to leave.

But it was like I had flipped a switch. She lunged, grabbing my arm, her face contorted with rage. Just as she had done countless times when I was a child, she raised her hand to strike me.

In that instant, a cold terror seized me.

I could have dodged. I could have blocked her hand. I could have even fought back.

But my body refused to obey. It was as if my neural pathways had been severed. I just stood there, frozen.

A statue. A puppet with its strings cut. I couldn't even breathe.

7

“Mom!”

The voice was bright and musical.

My mother’s hand stopped mid-air. She turned, her angry expression melting into one of delighted surprise.

Standing in the doorway was a girl so full of life she seemed to vibrate. Even out of breath, her smile was radiant.

“Poppy?”

“When did you get back? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Poppy bounced over and squeezed between us, linking her arm through our mother’s and leaning her head on her shoulder.

“I wanted to surprise you! Oh, Mommy, I missed you so much.”

Eleanor preened, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening with pleasure.

I took a small, subtle step back, giving them ample space for their mother-daughter reunion.

My back hit something solid and warm. A wall of muscle.

“Poppy, how did you get here? Who picked you up from the airport?”

“Grant, of course!”

Both of them turned their gazes to the man standing behind me.

He had a steadying hand on my back. “Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice low.

I took a shaky breath.

“When exactly,” I asked, my voice tight, “did you reconnect with your former fiancée?”

A muscle feathered in Grant’s jaw.

“Right now, she is still my sister-in-law.”

“Oh, my mistake. How did you reconnect with your sister-in-law?”

He didn’t like that. I could see it in the clench of his jaw.

Someone else didn’t like it either.

Poppy pouted, stepping between us to take Grant’s arm.

“Grant, what are you guys talking about? I called your name and you didn’t even answer.”

She clung to her brother-in-law’s arm as naturally as she had clung to her mother’s.

Eleanor’s eyes darted between them, a speculative gleam entering her expression.

“Poppy, you two…”

Poppy’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink before she even spoke. She stamped her foot playfully.

“Mom, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Grant and I, we’re just… we’re…”

“Oh, I can’t talk to you people, you’re so annoying!”

The unspoken words, the flustered denial—it was classic Poppy.

A slow smile of dawning realization spread across my mother’s face, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes into canyons of delight.

“Wonderful, wonderful!”

“This is a happy day. Grant, you come with Poppy. We’ll all go home and have dinner together.”

Everyone in the room was suddenly very busy. Only Grant spared me a final, fleeting glance.

But in the end, he allowed himself to be led away by Poppy.

And my sister, from the moment she arrived to the moment she left, never once looked at me.

8

With Poppy’s return, everything suddenly accelerated.

That evening, my mother found the time to send me a text.

[If you’re so determined to get this divorce, then get it over with.]

[But since you’re the one asking for it, you’ll leave with nothing. Don’t be greedy. Our family can’t afford that kind of embarrassment.]

At ten, Grant came to the lab.

He brought late-night food for the team, and we had a short debrief.

As he was leaving, I stopped him.

“Is the divorce agreement being drafted? Helios Pharmaceuticals—that’s the one thing I won’t budge on. You can promise me that, right?”

“Is there nothing else you want to ask me?” he said, his voice quiet.

Actually, there was.

“Are you about to be demoted to my brother-in-law? And what happens to the mother of your one-night-stand baby?”

Grant let out a cold, humorless laugh.

“What’s this? Divorcing me but still concerned about who’s taking your place?”

I pursed my lips. He was clearly angry.

“I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

“If Poppy has her sights set on you, you’d better protect that woman and her child. When my mother gets desperate, even Poppy is afraid of her.”

He didn’t respond. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

“Audrey.”

“Yes?”

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he hesitated. After a long moment, all he managed was: “She has a name. It’s Sloane.”

…

“Oh.”

9

I never imagined that just hours after learning Sloane’s name, I would run into her.

After deciding to keep the baby, I had my first official prenatal visit and a battery of tests at the hospital. As I was leaving, I got a frantic call from a former mentor who now ran a private clinic.

“Your mother just dragged someone in here, trying to force an abortion. Do you know anything about this? She’s threatening to ruin my career!”

What is the absolute limit of a person’s cruelty?

This. This was it.

To completely disregard another person’s will, their fundamental human rights. Because my family were major donors to that clinic, my mother believed she held the power of life and death in her hands.

I didn’t hesitate. I called the police.

Then I called Grant.

No answer.

After a moment’s thought, I turned my car around and headed for the clinic.

The scene I walked into was pure chaos. Two groups of people were in a standoff, one restraining my mother, the other holding back Sloane.

“You shameless homewrecker!” my mother screeched. “Destroying my daughter’s marriage, carrying a bastard child! If your mother didn’t teach you how to be a decent human being, I will!”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Sloane shot back, her voice dripping with contempt. “Yelling at me? I’m terrified. I was bitten by a rabid dog once as a kid.”

“Who are you calling a dog?”

“You, old woman! Get over here and I’ll show you what I can do!”

“Ha! You seduce a married man and you think you’re righteous? Why don’t you just strip naked and put on a show for the whole street?”

“Is that what you did? Speaking from experience?”

…

My mother was a storm of fury.

Sloane was a hurricane, matching her blow for blow. If not for the people holding her back, she would have launched herself across the room.

Then the police arrived.

And so did the patriarch of the Pierce family, my father, Arthur, a man perpetually too busy for anything.

The police tried to mediate. My mother and Sloane continued to trade insults.

My father, ever the decisive executive, strode forward and slapped my mother across the face.

“Shut up,” he snarled. “Haven’t you made enough of a scene?”

Instantly, Eleanor fell silent, shrinking like a frightened bird.

He turned to Sloane. “Ms. Sloane, I apologize for this incident. Name your terms. I only hope we can resolve this quietly. I’m sure none of us want this to escalate.”

Sloane, her hair disheveled, looked ragged but unbroken.

She let out a cold laugh.

“Resolve it quietly? Not a chance. I’m pressing charges. I’m suing her. I want—”

Crack.

Another slap, this one on my mother’s other cheek.

“Is that enough?” my father asked Sloane, his voice dangerously calm. “If not…”

Everyone froze. Especially Sloane, her lips pressed into a thin, white line, her face pale with shock.

And me, standing just outside the circle of chaos, my feet felt rooted to the floor. The hand at my side clenched into a fist so tight my nails dug into my palm.

One slap.

“Is that enough?”

Another slap.

“How about now? Is this enough?”

My mother was dragging me by the hair, forcing me to face the little girl and her parents.

“If you’re still not satisfied, how about this?”

Another slap.

It was that girl. She had torn up my test paper. I had pushed her. She fell and started crying, claiming I’d hit her.

My mother arrived and slapped me without asking a single question.

Asking them, is that enough?

Did it hurt?

I don’t remember.

I just remember a wave of dizziness, a sudden, warm, spreading wetness.

In front of everyone, I had wet myself.

10

When I was little, I could never understand why my parents didn’t like me.

I got straight A's. I learned everything quickly. Teachers praised me, and other adults complimented me.

But never my parents.

My father acted as if I were invisible.

My mother’s gaze was always cold.

“So you got another A? Are you showing off? Get out of my sight. The sight of you annoys me.”

My accomplishments were never acknowledged.

But my mistakes were magnified, scrutinized under her relentless lens. She was a quality inspector looking for flaws, and any tiny error on my part was cause for a festival of her scorn.

I was lying on the living room rug, my mind drifting, when Poppy appeared above me, looking down.

“Did you see my texts? I called you, too. You ignored me!” she said, her voice accusatory. “That’s really rude, Audrey.”

I closed my eyes and rolled over.

She plopped down on the rug beside me anyway.

“When Dad got home, he laid into Mom. Told her if she lost Grant as a son-in-law, he would bring Rhys home for good.”

Rhys.

My father’s illegitimate son. Two years older than me.

“Mom went ballistic. Smashed everything in the house. Now she’s insisting I have to be the one to marry Grant.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “When are you two finally getting divorced?”

I didn’t want to talk to her.

I started to get up, but she grabbed my arm.

“Play chess with me.”

I couldn’t hold back a scoff.

“You? Play what? Tic-tac-toe? You’re terrible at chess.”

Poppy just grinned, her eyes curving into crescents.

We played two games. Each one lasted over forty minutes. She would study the board for a minute or two before every single move.

Finally, not even halfway through the second game, I drifted off to sleep.

Poppy noticed quickly.

She waved a hand in front of my face. Then, moving with uncharacteristic quiet, she found a blanket and carefully draped it over me.

She tiptoed out of the room, pulling the door gently shut, leaving me in peace.

11

Poppy had asked a good question.

When were Grant and I getting divorced?

He’d been away on business for a few days. He flew back today and went straight to the office from the airport.

As soon as I heard, I drove over.

But I was a step too late.

His assistant intercepted me, his expression pained. “Dr. Pierce, the president’s office is… occupied at the moment.”

“By who?”

“Ms. Sloane.”

Ah. She was probably here to settle accounts after the ordeal at the clinic.

Nothing to do but wait.

I waited for thirteen minutes.

Grant did not emerge.

Instead, Poppy and my mother arrived.

The moment they appeared, I saw the assistant’s shoulders tense. He was going to need a raise. Three different women, all here to see the CEO about a divorce.

The instant my mother saw me, her brow furrowed in disapproval.

“What are you doing here?”

Her face was still slightly swollen, a faint bruising that no amount of makeup could fully conceal.

I looked away.

“The divorce.”

She let out a dismissive huff and sat down opposite me, pulling Poppy down with her. Poppy was absorbed in her phone, oblivious.

“You’re the one who wants this divorce,” my mother hissed under her breath.

“Besides, Grant was always meant for Poppy. You were just keeping her seat warm.”

“And this is all your fault anyway. If you had managed Grant properly, none of this mess with the other woman and the illegitimate child would have happened.”

“Audrey, did you do this on purpose?”

Deep breath in. Slow breath out.

I’d rather deal with the mistress.

I stood up and, ignoring his assistant’s panicked expression, pushed open the door to Grant’s office.

Behind me, I heard him trying to block my mother. “Mrs. Pierce, you really can’t go in there.”

If the reception area was a warzone, the office was the bloody aftermath.

Sloane had Grant pinned against the wall, her hands fisted in his collar, her body pressed against his.

Grant’s eyes were smoldering with anger, but the edges were red. Whether from rage or something else, I couldn’t tell.

I stopped in my tracks.

They both turned to look at me, their expressions equally ferocious.

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