Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 23

Chapter 23 Carrying His Secret Child

“I told you, the position is filled, Miss Hayes. Are you hard of hearing, or just desperate?”

The receptionist’s voice was a jagged blade, cutting through the stagnant air of the lobby. She didn’t even look up from her nails,

but the disdain in her tone was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

“The listing went up two hours ago,” I said. I kept my voice low, controlled, the way I used to when negotiating vendor contracts for the Johnston Group. “I have the qualifications. Just let me speak to the office manager.”

“The office manager doesn’t see ‘consultants’ from the capital. Especially not the ones on the front page of the tabloids. She finally looked at me, her eyes tracking over my worn gray sweater and the scuffed canvas shoes that were still damp from the Port Sterling rain. A smirk touched her lips. “Have a nice day.”

I took my resume back from the glass counter. The paper was still warm from the printer, but it felt like a lead weight in my hand. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked out the door, the bell jingling with a cheerful sound that felt like a mockery.

The coastal wind hit me the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk. It was biting, relentless, and smelled of salt and diesel exhaust. I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders, but the cold seeped into my marrow anyway. My lower back throbbed with a persistent, dull ache-a warning from a body I was pushing to the brink of collapse.

I walked five blocks back to the rundown brick apartment complex I now called home. The shared bathroom was at the end of the fourth-floor hallway, and I barely made it through the door before the first wave of nausea hit.1 collapsed in front of the stained porcelain toilet. My stomach heaved, and acid burned my throat as I gripped the chipped ceramic edges. My body shook with the force of it. I stayed there, forehead resting against my forearm, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Three days in Port Sterling, and the morning sickness had arrived with brutal, clockwork consistency. It cared nothing for my empty bank account or my shattered heart. It demanded a toll I could barely afford to pay.

“I am trying,” I whispered to the empty, tile-walled room. “I promise you, I am trying.”

I pushed myself off the floor, my knees trembling. At the sink, I turned the rusted metal knob. Brown water sputtered out before running clear and freezing cold. I rinsed the bitter taste from my mouth and looked in the spotted mirror.

I looked like a ghost haunting my own life. Dark bags bruised the skin under my eyes, and my cheekbones were sharp enough to cut. The mark Celeste Whitmore gave me-the one Tristan let her give me-had healed into a raised, angry red scar. A permanent brand of my exact worth in their world.

I returned to Room 402, a concrete box that smelled of brown radiator water and dampness. I sat on the edge of the bare mattress and pulled my duffel bag onto my lap. I reached into the side pocket and spread my remaining cash across the blanket.

Two hundred and forty dollars.That was the sum total of my existence. Rent was paid for eight weeks, but after that, I faced the street. I needed vitamins. I needed real food. I needed to survive.

I dressed again, this time in the only professional clothes I possessed: black slacks and a simple white blouse. I layered the gray

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Chapter 23 Carrying His Secret Child

sweater over it to hide the frayed cuffs and tied my hair into a knot so tight it pulled at my scalp. I used a cheap concealer to alute

the red of the scar, though it did little to hide the truth.

I walked back out into the gray industrial landscape of Port Sterling. I bypassed the towering corporate high-rises this time. I knew my name was poison in those circles. I targeted mid-sized firms, hoping the working-class businesses cared more about competence

than high-society gossip.

At a regional supply chain firm, the rejection was instantaneous. The moment the receptionist saw “Johnston Group’ on my resume, the recognition turned into disdain.

“The position is filled,” she said, sliding the paper back across the glass.

I didn’t argue. I had nineteen more copies.

I walked for three hours until the cold seeped through the soles of my shoes. Finally, I entered a shipping distribution center near the harbor that smelled of diesel and wet cardboard.

“We’re actually looking for an operations manager, the young man at the desk said, scanning my qualifications with a genuine smile. “The Johnston Group runs a tight ship. Let me see if our HR director has a minute.”

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