Chapter 1I Only Wanted An Heir Not A Husband

I was getting a manicure when Rhys’s ninety-ninth mistress cornered me.

She slapped an ultrasound image down on the marble countertop. “You’re Rhys Blackwell’s wife, right? I’m pregnant. You need to file for divorce now.”

I glanced at the grainy printout, then skillfully pulled out a stack of documents—evidence of her own extracurricular activities—and slid them across to her.

Her attitude executed a perfect 180-degree turn. She tore up the ultrasound.

“I’ll leave Rhys immediately!”

I admired my fresh manicure. Blood-red, it had taken eight hours of meticulous work.

A minute later, I told the manicurist, “Take it off.”

I had a certain kind of "fierce battle" scheduled for the evening.

This color wouldn’t give me the range of motion I needed.

Since marrying Rhys, I have either been dealing with one mistress or on my way to dealing with the next.

I’d long since become the city’s favorite joke.

People in the social circles would greet me with a smug, knowing look, asking for the secret to spotting an affair.

The truth? I didn't care that Rhys found mistresses; I cared that those mistresses tried to lay claim to the Blackwell fortune.

Besides, every time I caught one, Rhys would unconditionally grant me one demand.

This time, I chose a child.

* * *

“What do you want this time?”

I’d barely stepped through the front door when I heard Rhys’s lazy voice.

I looked up.

He was stretched out languidly on the sofa, long arms open, waiting for my response.

I slipped into my house shoes, walked over, and said with careful sincerity, “A child.”

“I want a child, yours and mine.”

His narrow, foxy eyes studied me, a trace of genuine interest flickering across his face. He patted his thigh.

I moved to sit, and his arm clamped around my waist, pulling me hard.

I tumbled into his embrace.

Gazing at his devastatingly handsome face, I leaned in and kissed him.

When the intensity peaked, he exerted a savage force while his voice was ice-cold.

“Don’t you dare try to use a baby to trap me like all the other women.”

“Even if you bear my child, I could never love a woman who was shoved down my throat!”

He drove into me, frantic and brutal.

I winced, biting back the cry of pain that threatened to escape.

I don't know how long it was before a phone call tore him away.

I lay in bed, taking long, ragged breaths, my hand resting on my flat stomach.

What I wanted had never been that pathetic, conditional kind of love.

Rhys Blackwell was notorious—the infamous, spoiled scion of the city’s elite.

Wealthy families warned their daughters away from him.

Even over thirty, Rhys remained a delinquent playboy.

The Blackwell parents were distraught. With no other option, they looked to "socially downward" prospects.

After layers of filtering, I—a poor, high-achieving university student with no family to speak of—entered their sights.

They only needed a woman who was compliant, sensible, and capable of keeping Rhys in line.

I acted the part perfectly: obedient, understanding, gentle in my care for Rhys.

I was meticulous, seemingly humble, and just strategic enough to offer a few well-placed, high-EQ comments that satisfied the elder Blackwells.

Even with Rhys’s vehement opposition, I was installed by his side.

I became the notorious Mrs. Blackwell—the butt of everyone’s jokes.

After that, Rhys only got worse, sometimes juggling three mistresses at once.

He constantly fed the gossip columns.

As his wife, I had to assume the responsibility of damage control.

Once, his reckless partying caused a major issue for the Blackwell Group, and after a severe dressing-down from his parents, he backed off slightly.

That incident was the start of my plan.

I began my careful, step-by-step strategy.

Initially, my demands were trinkets—jewelry, designer bags.

Then, expensive cars and apartments, reinforcing the illusion that I was nothing more than a grasping, materialistic woman.

When I’d ticked off enough conditions, I graduated.

It was a seamless transition to a role within the Blackwell Group, using my own skill set, amplified by the prestige of being Mrs. Blackwell, to climb the corporate ladder.

Ding-dong.

Rhys’s hundredth mistress sent a provocative message.

A classic catfight challenge, every sentence designed to provoke me, Mrs. Blackwell, into a dramatic breakdown.

I typed a couple of nonchalant sentences in response, turned off my phone, and walked into the bathroom.

I could play the jealous wife’s game easily, but I would never immerse myself in such a pointless contest.

What I wanted was to stand at the peak of power.

Once I carried the Blackwell heir, the elder Blackwells’ indulgence of Rhys would curdle into resentment.

And they would begin to cultivate the child in my belly—

The new successor.