Six Billion Reasons to Say I Do

I signed my divorce papers at 9 AM. Threw up in the law firm's bathroom at 9:03 — not from heartbreak, but from the pregnancy I'd just confirmed with a two-dollar test over the marble toilet at Whitfield & Associates. Walked through the lobby at 9:07 and saw Megan, my best friend of twelve years, sitting cross-legged in a silk dress, wearing the diamond pendant my husband gave me for our first anniversary. My phone rang at 9:15 — a stranger told me my biological father was dead and I was worth six billion dollars.

I didn't even know I had a father. I still hadn't had coffee.

I walked past Megan without looking at her. She called my name — "Aria, wait, can we just talk?" — in that sweet, practiced voice she used when she wanted to seem like the reasonable one. I kept walking. Through the glass doors, into the sharp New York morning, my heels clicking against concrete that didn't care about any of it.

Three days ago I'd come home early from a twelve-hour nursing shift and found them. Nathan and Megan. In our bed. The sheets I'd bought, the bedroom I'd painted, the life I'd spent three years building on my hands and knees while his mother told me I'd never be good enough.

Nathan hadn't even apologized. He'd sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt, and said: "You had to know this was coming, Aria. You were never what I needed."

I didn't scream. Didn't throw things. Something inside me simply — went dark.

Now, standing on a Manhattan sidewalk with divorce papers in my bag and a secret in my belly that my ex-husband would never know about, I answered the phone.

"Ms. Bennett? My name is Gerald Hayes. I represent the estate of Marcus Webb."

Marcus Webb. Even I knew the name. Founder of Webb Technologies. Billionaire. Tech visionary. Dead, apparently, as of last Thursday.

"I think you have the wrong number," I said.

"I don't." A careful pause. "Ms. Bennett — Marcus Webb was your biological father."

The sidewalk tilted. I grabbed a parking meter.

"That's impossible. My mother never—"

"Your mother was Lily Chen. She was Marcus's research partner. They were together for three years before she left." Gerald's voice was gentle but immovable. "Marcus spent twenty years searching for you. He made provisions."

"Provisions?"

"His entire estate. Controlling shares of Webb Technologies. Real estate, investments, liquid assets totaling approximately 6.2 billion dollars." A breath. "All of it passes to you. His only child."

I sank onto a bench. A pigeon landed beside me, unimpressed.

"There's a condition," Gerald continued. "Your father anticipated that powerful people would try to take this from you. He wanted you protected — specifically, by a partner."

"What kind of partner?"

"A legal one. You must be married within thirty days."

The word married struck like a slap. I'd been married as recently as this morning. Three years of learning exactly how much destruction that word could carry.

"Your father left a name," Gerald said. "Someone he trusted completely."

"Who?"

"Ethan Cross."

My blood went cold. Ethan Cross. CEO of Cross Dynamics. The most feared man in New York finance. Never photographed smiling. Had reportedly dismantled a rival's entire portfolio in a single afternoon because the man interrupted him during a meeting.

"He's expecting your call," Gerald said quietly.

I stared at the pregnancy test still in my coat pocket, at the divorce papers in my bag, at the grey city sprawling before me like a dare.

Divorced. Pregnant. Broke. About to propose marriage to a man the entire city feared.

I had absolutely nothing left to lose.