His Mistress's Baby Cost Him a Billion-Dollar Legacy

§01

I was arranging a family dinner when my husband's assistant sat down in the seat of honor.

She shot me a sideways glance, her painted lips curling into a sneer before she even spoke. “A hen that can’t lay eggs,” she spat, the words sharp enough to cut through the polite chatter. "Get out of the way."

Before I could form a response, she let out a cold, theatrical laugh. "You think you can be a Whitfield wife without producing an heir? The Whitfield fortune will belong to my son, sooner or later!"

My father-in-law, Harrison Whitfield, shot to his feet, his face a thundercloud. He pointed a trembling finger at her.

"Get this lunatic out of my house! The Whitfield name is not for you to drag through the mud!"

But the assistant, Roxanne, merely smiled, a picture of triumphant arrogance. She pulled a folded paper from her designer bag and slapped it onto the polished mahogany table.

"Open your damn eyes and look closely," she purred, her voice dripping with venom. "What I'm carrying in my belly is a Whitfield. The real deal."

Suddenly, my husband, Barrett, rushed forward. Not towards me, but towards her. He wrapped his arms around Roxanne in a tight, ecstatic embrace, shouting for the whole world to hear that he was going to be a father. He called her the savior of the Whitfield dynasty.

My mother-in-law, Esther, whose face had been a mask of disgust moments before, transformed. Her features softened into a grotesque display of adoration. She scurried over, her hands reaching out to touch Roxanne’s stomach, cooing about her "precious grandson," her "little golden goose."

Harrison's expression shifted just as quickly. The rage vanished, replaced by a wide, toothy grin. He praised Roxanne, calling her the family’s benefactor.

I just stood there, frozen.

I remembered it all so clearly. The sterile white walls of the clinic, the somber look on the face of the world’s leading fertility expert. Barrett had azoospermia. The specialist had been unequivocal: he could never, under any circumstances, father a child.

§02

"Victoria, a woman who can’t have children is just a barren hen."

Roxanne Sharpe teetered on her six-inch stilettos, tapping the toe of her shoe against my calf. "Do you have any idea what a waste it is for the Whitfield family to keep a useless hen like you?"

"Mrs. Whitfield," she said, drawing out the title with mocking reverence, "aren't you ashamed to be taking up space?"

"You're the kind of woman who occupies a stall but never shits…"

I clenched my fists, forcing down the inferno rising in my chest. I looked directly at her heavily made-up face. "You're an assistant. Don't you think your reach is extending a little too far? When did the private affairs of the Whitfield family become your business to comment on?"

Three years ago, the Langley family business had been on the brink of collapse. It was the Whitfield family that had bailed us out.

I could still see my father’s face, etched with desperation, as he accepted Harrison Whitfield's terms.

The condition had been simple, brutal. I was to marry his son, Barrett.

"Victoria is brilliant and capable," Harrison had declared at the time. "She is the most suitable choice for a Whitfield wife."

It was both a rescue and a transaction.

The Whitfields needed my business acumen. The Langleys needed their capital.

For my father, I married Barrett Whitfield.

In these three years, I had tripled the company's profits and successfully orchestrated the Whitfield Group's IPO.

Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, couldn't stand it any longer. She stepped forward, gently taking Roxanne’s arm. "Ms. Sharpe, the Whitfield family has been good to you. They pay you a handsome salary. Why can't you just be a good assistant? It's not your place to interfere in the master's affairs."

Roxanne ripped her arm away, her voice screeching. "You old hag, who the hell do you think you are?"

Mrs. Gable staggered back but persisted, her tone pleading. "Ms. Sharpe, you must have a conscience. The mistress has given so much for this family. We've all seen it. A husband and wife's business is for them to sort out, not for outsiders."

"Shut up!" Roxanne raised her hand, ready to strike the older woman. "A servant dares to lecture me?"

I moved instantly, blocking her path. My voice was ice. "Roxanne, Mrs. Gable has been with this family for twenty years. Even Harrison respects her. You dare touch her, and see what happens."

Just then, my father-in-law descended the stairs, his face grim. He took in the chaotic scene in the living room, his brow furrowed.

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