Part 1My Fake Baby For The Tyrant

To keep from being buried alive in the fallout of a dying dynasty, I decided to steal a child from a man who supposedly couldn't even stand.

To make sure the plan was foolproof, I doubled the dose of "Midnight Silk"—a cocktail of chemistry and desperation designed to make a man forget his own name.

That night, the man who came to me was anything but the invalid the rumors described. He was a force of nature, primal and unrelenting, far more savage than any dying billionaire had a right to be.

I told myself the drugs were just that good. I let my tears hit the pillow and endured every grueling hour until dawn.

When the sun finally crept through the heavy velvet curtains, I pulled on a silk robe, my lower back aching with a dull, throbbing heat. I pushed open the double doors of the suite, ready to secure my future by announcing my "devotion" to the old man.

Instead, I found a massacre.

The marble floors were slick with it—a river of crimson reflecting the morning light. Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls. And right in the center of the carnage stood the man I had spent the night with. He was holding a tactical blade that still dripped onto the expensive rug, his boot firmly planted on the throat of the man I was supposed to have seduced.

He turned to look at me, his eyes bloodshot and dark with a lingering, predatory satisfaction.

"So, Sadie," he rasped, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "Did you get what you wanted last night?"

I was ruined. I hadn't seduced the dying king. I had seduced the man who just murdered him.

* * *

The biggest mistake of my life wasn't marrying into the Montgomery family. It was believing that a hit of "Midnight Silk" could buy me a way out.

In this world, there was a dark, unspoken rule: when the Patriarch falls, the loose ends are cut. No heirs, no protection. And for a trophy wife like me—a girl with no pedigree and even less influence—I wasn't just a loose end. I was a liability meant to be discarded.

Harrison Montgomery was dying. He was a shell of a man, barely clinging to life in the east wing of the estate. The vultures were already circling. For someone like me, "discarded" usually meant a one-way trip to a shallow grave or a life-shattering scandal that would leave me on the streets.

I wanted to live.

So, I burned through my hidden savings to bribe the head of security. I needed him to steer Harrison into my suite for one last "reconciliation." I prepped the room, lit the incense, and doubled the dose of the stimulant. I even downed half a bottle of expensive bourbon myself; if I had to sleep with a man who smelled like mothballs and impending death, I needed to be numb enough not to vomit.

But I missed one crucial detail: the coup was scheduled for that very night.

I was hiding behind the canopy curtains when I heard the heavy thud of boots and the metallic clatter of gear. My brain was a fog of bourbon and adrenaline. I thought it was Harrison, maybe wearing some kind of experimental medical brace to help him stay upright.

The moment the doors swung open, I didn't look at his face. I didn't dare. I lunged.

If I got pregnant tonight, it wouldn't matter who sat on the throne tomorrow. A Montgomery heir was a golden ticket.

The man froze.

He smelled of cold rain, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fresh blood—the scent of a man who had just finished a harvest. In my drunken haze, I convinced myself it was just a strange, expensive cologne.

I didn't just embrace him. I wrapped myself around him like a vine, dragging him toward the bed with a desperation that should have been a warning.

His body was like granite. He was still holding something cold and hard in his hand—a weapon, surely—but I didn't give him the chance to use it. I pressed my lips to his, forcing the drugged wine into his mouth.

"I’ve been waiting for you, darling," I whispered, reciting the lines of a loyal, grieving wife.

I felt the killing intent in him falter for a split second. Then, the drug hit. That suppressed, violent energy was ignited by the chemical fire I’d sparked.

He flipped me over, his hands gripping my waist with enough force to bruise.

At the time, I only felt a surge of triumph: The rumors were wrong. The old man still has plenty of fight left in him!

The night was a blur of survival.

I thought I was performing a grim duty, a "calculated transaction." Instead, it was a total eclipse. This man was a predator, ruthless and agonizingly thorough. He didn't move like a man who needed help walking; he moved like a man who destroyed things for a living.

Somewhere in the middle of the fever dream, I wondered if the "Midnight Silk" was some kind of fountain of youth. He seemed to be venting years of repressed rage, his movements bordering on destructive, yet he stopped himself from truly hurting me in moments of strange, terrifying restraint.

In a moment of sheer, drug-induced stupidity, I actually panted into his ear, "You've been holding out on me, haven't you? You're quite the dark horse. If I'd known you were this... capable... I wouldn't have used the double dose."

He stilled for a heartbeat. Then he redoubled his efforts, and I was lost again.

I was a small boat in the middle of a hurricane, clinging to my only hope of survival. I don't remember falling asleep. I only remember whispering that I was exhausted, crying into his neck. He let out a low, raspy chuckle—a sound so deep and resonant it couldn't have come from Harrison’s frail chest.

But I was too far gone to care about the logic of it. I just knew the seed was planted. My life was safe.

Until I woke up the next morning and saw his face.