The CEO's Rejected Wife And Secret Heir novel Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Chapter 7 – The Birth of a Fighter

I nodded, my voice caught somewhere deep inside.

Back at the café, I worked until closing. My feet screamed. My back ached as the baby kicked at my ribs.

That night, in my studio apartment, I sat at my tiny desk with my laptop open.

Olivia had left me with something else too—an idea.

"What are you good at?" she’d asked over lunch, leaning in."Like, really good at?"

"Business strategy," I’d told her without hesitation. "Corporate analysis. I can look at a company and see what’s wrong with it, how to fix it, how to make it profitable."

She smiled. "So why aren’t you doing that?"

"Because I’m broke and pregnant and"

"Excuses," she smiled again. "You’ve got the internet. You’ve got brains. Start small and build something."

Now, staring at the screen, I pulled up articles about startup consulting. Freelance business analysts. Corporate advisors.

People who did what I could do—for money.

My hand rested on my belly as the baby kicked. "What do you think?" I whispered. "Should we try?"

Another kick that I chose to interpret as yes.

I opened a blank document and started typing.

Monroe Consulting: Strategic Business Analysis

By 2 AM, I had a basic website framework. Nothing fancy—I’d learned enough coding to cobble together something functional.

Services offered: Corporate restructuring analysis. Investment opportunity assessment. Market positioning strategy.

I had no clients. No reputation and portfolio.

But I had skill. I published the site.

Then I started emailing—cold outreach to small businesses in London. Fifty emails. A hundred. Two hundred.

Most would ignore me. Some would delete without reading.

But I only needed one yes.

"For you," I said to my belly. "I’m doing this for you."

Two months later.

The contractions started at 2 AM.

I woke to pain that ripped through my belly like a knife. My hands gripped the sheets as I gasped, trying to remember what the midwife had told me during that one prenatal class.

Breathe. Count. Wait until they’re five minutes apart.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers shook as I pulled up Olivia’s contact.

She answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. "Aria?"

"The baby’s coming." My voice cracked as another wave of pain hit.

"I’m on my way." Rustling sounds came through the speaker. "Don’t move."

Twenty minutes felt like hours. I paced my tiny studio, one hand pressed to my lower back, the other clutching my belly. The contractions came harder.

When Olivia burst through my door, still in her hospital scrubs, relief flooded through me.

She dropped her bag and checked her watch. "How far apart?"

"Four minutes," I panted, gripping the back of a chair. "Maybe less."

"We need to go. Now." She grabbed my hospital bag—already packed by the door—and helped me down the stairs.

The taxi ride to Royal London Hospital was a blur of streetlights and pain. Olivia held my hand, talking me through each contraction.

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