Mr. Rhodes, Your Dead Fiancée Is Pregnant

The same hour I got my pregnancy results, someone sent me photos of my fiancé kissing his first love on the Spanish Steps.

I gave him three chances anyway.

At the airport, I asked him to go public. He said there was no need.

At dinner, I asked him to marry me at City Hall the next morning. He said I was acting out.

Then I told him I was carrying his baby.

Lucian Rhodes, the richest man in New York, the man who had proposed to me on one knee a month earlier, looked at me like a stranger.

"I had a vasectomy two years ago. Watching you pretend to love me is disgusting."

He slammed the door. The candles went out. I sat on the marble floor in the dark and bled.

A week later I came back. Red lips, a resignation letter, a miscarriage report, and two cases of cash. My half of everything he had ever spent on me.

"Three years, split fifty-fifty."

On my arm was my new husband.

On my way out, I told Lucian the only true thing I had ever said to him. "I never faked loving you. You called that disgusting. That's the one thing I won't forgive."

Then I boarded my family's private jet.

An hour later, he learned who I really was: the runaway daughter of a European banking dynasty, promised from birth to a crown prince. He learned his vasectomy had failed.

He was on the airstair of his own jet, about to chase me across the Atlantic, when the news broke.

My plane had gone down at sea. No survivors.

The world lit candles for me.

He coughed up blood on the tarmac.

And on a private island in the Caribbean, with his baby growing inside me, I turned off the news and finished my mango.