The Secret Pregnancy of the Billionaire's Ex-Wife novel Chapter 295

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The Secret Pregnancy of the Billionaire’s Ex–Wife

Chapter 295: Became Uncle Christopher

Christopher POV

It was winter when I brought Angela to Italy. Angela was four month pregnant then, her belly just beginning to round beneath her

oversized sweaters.

I’d purchased a modest villa in the Italian countryside. Nothing too stentatious–I wanted her comfortable, not overwhelmed.

The locals quickly accepted us as a young couple expecting their first child. Well, children. We learned about the twins during her first ultrasound in Italy.

“Twins,” the doctor had said in accented English, pointing the grainy screen. “Due in summer.”

Angela’s face had paled. I remember reaching for her hand, feeling if tremble in mine. Two babies. Neither of us had expected that.

“We’ll manage,” I told her on the drive home. “I’ll hire help. Whatever you need.”

She’d just nødded, staring out the window at the passing countryside her hand resting protectively over her stomach.

The months that followed were a blur of preparations–assembling two of everything, reading every book on twin births I could find, converting an entire wing of the villa into a nursery.

wanted everything perfect for them. Perfect for her.

They arrived in July, during a heatwave that had the whole region sweating and irritable. Angela had been uncomfortable for weeks, her ankles swollen, her patience thin. When her water broke at three in the morning, I nearly crashed the car rushing her to the hospital.

Aria came first, screaming her displeasure at the world that had displaced her. Ethan followed seven minutes later, quieter but with a gaze that seemed to take in everything. I stood by Angela’s side through it all, holding her hand, wiping her brow, feeling utterly useless against her pain yet unable to leave.

When the nurse placed Aria in my arms, something inside me shifted–plates of emotional bedrock sliding into a new configuration. She was tiny, her face red and scrunched in protest, her fists balled tightly as if ready to fight. I touched her cheek with one finger, marveling at the softness of her skin.

“She has your temper,” I whispered to Angela, who managed a tired smile.

Then came Ethan, calmer but no less miraculous. He looked directly at me, his unfocused newborn eyes somehow seeming to see right through me.

I felt a connection that transcended blood, transcended sense. These children weren’t mine biologically, but in that moment, they became mine in every way that mattered.

“Hello,” I said softly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

It was a promise–to them, to Angela, to myself. A vow more binding than any marriage certificate could ever be.

The first year was the hardest. Nights blurred into days in an endless cycle of feedings, diaper changes, and bri of sleep.

ecious moments

Angela struggled with postpartum depression, sometimes staring blankly at the wall for hours while I tended to the twins. Other days she was manic with energy, reorganizing the nursery at midnight or cooking elaborate meals no one had the appetite to eat.

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Chapter 295: Became Uncle Christopher

I hired a night nurse to help, fut Angels was recitant at first

“They’re my babies,‘ shed insisted, dark circles under her eyes, hair downed the ban. 1 tend to be the one rating

You’re exhausted. I’d argued gently. ‘Just three nights a week, for or health, and this

Eventually she relented, and those three nights of uninterrupted slap made a world of difference. Slowly, the Angels 16 fallen in love with began to resurface–laughing again, singing to the twins, ning me for evering deer of wine on the torres for they d

fallen asleep.

By the time the twins turned one, we’d established a routine that wed. My business required occasional travel, but I sch everything around important milestones,

I was there for their first steps, first words, first tantrums. I documented everything, filling albums with photos that tracked their growth day by day.

“You’re obsessed,” Angela teased once, finding me reviewing footage of Ethan’s first successful attempt to stack blocks.

“I don’t want to miss anything, I’d replied, not taking my eyes off the screen. In the video, my voice could be beard cheering Ethan on, ridiculous with enthusiasm over something so small. But that was the thing about children–they made the small things monumental.

As the twins grew, so did our strange little family unit.

We celebrated holidays together, established traditions–Sunday morning pancakes, summer picnics by the lake, bedtime stories that grew more elaborate with each telling.

I taught Ethan to swim, holding his tiny body in the water while he kicked frantically, determined to master this new skill Angela taught Aria to dance, twirling her around the living room to old jazz records.

Our neighbors simply assumed we were married. “Your husband,” they’d say to Angela, or “your wife” to me. Neither of us corrected them. It was easier that way, and part of me liked the pretense, the glimpse into what could be if Angela ever saw me as more than

a friend.

There were moments I thought it might happen. Late nights on the terrace, wine loosening our usual boundaries, when our conversation would drift into more intimate territory. Times when I’d catch her looking at me with something that might have been affection, might have been more.

I’d reach out, brush hair from her face, or rest my hand on hers for just a second too long. She never pulled away.

But she never leaned in either.