12/05/2025
Unaware She Just Married A Billionaire Son Who Controls His Entire Empire, He Splashes Mud On Ex-Wife While Mistress Laughs - What Happened When His Father Announced She's Pregnant With His Heir Left Him Destroyed - Episode 2
Emma was living in a tiny flat in Brixton, barely big enough for a bed and a desk, teaching full-time and going to therapy every Wednesday evening, when her friend Sarah dragged her to a charity event. "You need to get out," Sarah insisted. "Meet people. You love books—this is a children's literacy gala. It's perfect for you."
Emma almost said no. She'd spent eleven months rebuilding herself piece by piece, and the thought of being in a room full of strangers felt exhausting. But something made her say yes. Maybe it was the part of her that refused to let Richard's voice win. Maybe it was the teacher in her who couldn't resist anything involving children and books.
She wore a simple navy dress—the first dress she'd bought for herself in years. No one chose it for her. No one told her it wasn't good enough. It was hers.
The gala was at a beautiful venue in Kensington, all soft lighting and elegant decorations, but Emma felt out of place immediately. Everyone looked expensive. Important. Like they belonged in rooms like this. She was about to leave when she saw a man in a plain dark suit setting up chairs near the back. He wasn't barking orders at staff or checking his phone. He was just helping.
Emma walked over. "Do you need a hand?"
The man looked up and smiled—genuine, warm, the kind of smile that reaches the eyes. "I'd love one, actually. I'm terrible at making these rows straight."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, arranging chairs, and then he said, "I'm Alexander, by the way."
"Emma."
"So, Emma, what brings you here tonight?"
She expected the usual small talk—what do you do, where do you live, all the questions that felt like social auditions. But Alexander didn't ask any of that. Instead, he said, "What's your favorite children's book?"
And just like that, they spent two hours talking. About books. About teaching. About the magic of watching a child read their first full sentence. About how stories could save people. Alexander listened like her words mattered. Like she mattered. Not because of who she was married to or how much money she made or whether she could give him something. Just because of who she was.
When he asked for her number, Emma hesitated. Her hand instinctively went to her stomach—a habit she'd developed after the miscarriage, like she was protecting a wound that never healed. "I'm not really ready for—"
"Coffee," Alexander interrupted gently. "Just coffee. As friends who both think The Gruffalo is criminally underrated as literature."
Emma laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in over a year.
They met for coffee three days later. Then dinner. Then long walks through Hyde Park where Alexander talked about his work in "family business operations" but never elaborated. Emma assumed he worked for some corporate firm. She didn't care. He was kind. Patient. He never pushed. Never demanded.
When Emma told him about her divorce, Alexander didn't ask for details. When she cried telling him about Sophie, about the miscarriage, about being told she was barren, Alexander held her hand across the table and said nothing. Because nothing needed to be said.
Four months into dating, Alexander took Emma to meet his father. "There's something I need to tell you first," he said, and Emma's stomach dropped. Here it comes, she thought. He's married. He's moving. He doesn't want this anymore.
"My last name is Sterling," Alexander said quietly.
Emma blinked. "Okay?"
"Alexander Sterling. My father is Lawrence Sterling."
The name hit Emma like cold water. Lawrence Sterling. The Lawrence Sterling. Billionaire. Owner of Sterling Global Holdings. Twelve billion pounds. Buildings across London with his name on them. Government contracts. Media holdings. One of the most powerful men in Britain.
Emma stood up so fast she almost knocked over her chair. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted you to know me. Not my last name. Not my father's money." Alexander's voice cracked. "Does that change things?"
Emma thought about Richard—who led with his money, his status, his achievements. Who made sure everyone knew exactly how successful he was. Then she looked at Alexander, who'd spent four months helping her arrange chairs, talking about children's books, holding her when she cried, never once mentioning that his family controlled an empire.
"No," she said. "It doesn't change anything."
They were engaged three months later. The wedding was small—forty people, mostly family. Emma wore a dress she chose herself. Lawrence Sterling insisted on walking her down the aisle because her father had died when she was nineteen. "You're my daughter now," Lawrence said, his voice thick with emotion. "Not my daughter-in-law. My daughter."
Richard Blackwell never knew it happened. Emma had blocked him on everything. Moved on completely.
When Emma became Emma Sterling, her life transformed overnight. Security details. Media attention. Events at Buckingham Palace. But Emma didn't change. She kept teaching. Kept volunteering. The Year Two students at her school in Hackney didn't care that their teacher was now married to a billionaire's son. They just cared that Mrs. Sterling always had the best stories and gave the best hugs.
Three months into the marriage, Emma felt nauseous during morning assembly. She excused herself, went to the staff bathroom, and took a pregnancy test she'd been carrying in her bag for a week, too terrified to use.
Two lines. Positive.
Emma's hands shook so violently she dropped the test. She slid down the bathroom wall and cried—not from joy, not yet. From terror. Because the doctors had told her this would never happen. Because she'd been told her body was too broken, too damaged, too traumatized to carry life. Because some part of her still believed Richard's voice: You'll kill this one too.
She called Alexander from the bathroom floor. "I need you to come get me."
Twenty minutes later, Alexander was there. Emma showed him the test, unable to speak. Alexander's face went through a dozen emotions in seconds—shock, fear, hope, determination—before settling on something fierce and protective. He knelt on the bathroom floor and took Emma's face in his hands.
"We're going to do this together. Every appointment. Every moment. Every fear. You're not alone."
At four months, the doctors confirmed it: the pregnancy was healthy. Stable. Miraculous, one doctor said. At five months, Emma's bump started showing. She told her Year Two class she was going to be a mummy. They made her cards covered in glitter and misspelled words. Emma cried happy tears.
Lawrence Sterling was beside himself with joy. His first grandchild. An heir to everything he'd built. He threw a small family dinner to celebrate, and when he toasted Emma, he said something that made her cry all over again: "You've given this family something we didn't know we were missing. Not an heir. Not a legacy. But hope. You've shown us that broken things can heal. That love is stronger than pain. That the best things in life aren't bought—they're built by people who refuse to give up."
Emma was five months pregnant, glowing with a happiness she thought she'd never feel, when she decided to visit her mother in her old neighborhood. She needed to pick up some things—chocolate digestives, oranges, the cravings were getting specific. She stopped at Tesco, the same one she'd shopped at for years. Wore comfortable maternity jeans and a loose sweater. Hair in a messy bun. No makeup. No security detail for once—she'd convinced Alexander she just needed an hour to feel normal.
She was crossing the street, grocery bags in hand, one hand protectively on her bump, when she heard the engine rev.
A black Bentley Continental GT accelerated toward a massive puddle right beside her. Emma barely had time to process it before the impact—a tsunami of muddy water, freezing cold, violent, exploding over her body. It soaked her from head to toe. Covered her face. Drenched her pregnant belly. Ruined her groceries.
Emma stood there, dripping, shocked, her hands instinctively covering her stomach.
The Bentley stopped. The window rolled down.
And Emma saw him.
Richard.
That face. Those eyes. That smile she used to think was charming but now recognized as cruel.
"Oh my God—Emma? Is that you?" Richard's voice was pure delight. Pure victory. He was laughing. Actually laughing.
Vanessa sat in the passenger seat, designer sunglasses, designer purse, designer cruelty. She giggled. "Richard, you're terrible! Is that really your ex-wife?"
"In the flesh," Richard said, looking Emma up and down like she was roadkill. "Still shopping at Tesco. Still living that budget life. Some things never change, huh?"
Emma couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She just stood there, five months pregnant, covered in filthy water, staring at the man who'd destroyed her.
Richard's eyes landed on her stomach. His smile widened—sharp, vindictive. "Wait. Are you pregnant?"
Emma's hands shook. She said nothing.
Richard's laughter turned vicious. "Oh my God, Vanessa, look—some desperate fool actually knocked up my barren ex-wife." He leaned further out the window, his voice dropping to something designed to hurt. "We both know your useless body can't carry a child, Emma. You'll kill this one too, just like you killed ours. What idiot agreed to get you pregnant? Does he know you're defective?"
The words hit Emma like physical blows. Her vision blurred. Not from the muddy water. From the memories flooding back—the hospital room, Sophie's tiny body, Richard's voice saying "these things happen," the doctors saying "barren," the years of believing she deserved this.
Richard revved his engine. "You know, I always wondered what happened to you after the divorce. Guess you're still exactly where I left you—struggling through life, poor and pathetic, pretending you're not broken."
Vanessa's laughter mixed with the sound of rain. "Richard, she looks miserable enough already."
"Does she?" Richard grinned wider. "I think she looks exactly like what she is—ordinary. A failure. A woman nobody wanted until some desperate man settled."
He caught Emma's eyes one last time. "Good luck keeping that baby alive, Emma. We both know how that story ends."
The Bentley sped off, engine roaring, leaving Emma standing in a puddle of filthy water, groceries destroyed, dignity shattered, five months pregnant and covered in mud that smelled like sewage and oil and rot.
People on the street stared. Some looked concerned. Some uncomfortable. One teenager had their phone out, filming.
Emma's hands trembled as she pulled out her phone. The screen was wet. Her fingers left muddy prints. She dialed Alexander's number.
He answered on the first ring. "Hey, love, how's—"
"Can you pick me up?" Emma's voice cracked. "Something happened."
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