1.Her Billionaire Boss Husband Took Their Newborn’s Suitcase and Flew Away With His Pregnant Mistress Until a Private Crew Opened the Jet He Never Knew Belonged to Her

Four months later. March in Chicago.

The city was trapped in a relentless late-winter ice storm. Freezing rain slammed against the neon sign of Sammy’s 24-Hour Diner, making the glowing red letters buzz and flicker against the dark asphalt of 47th Street.

Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, burnt grease, and bleach.

Layla wiped down the sticky formica counter for the hundredth time that night. Her feet were swollen, her lower back throbbed with a dull, continuous ache, and her breath came in short, shallow gasps.

She was seven months pregnant.

Beneath her stained white apron, her belly was round and heavy, protruding prominently against her cheap black maternity dress. The ultrasound technician had been right—carrying twins was an immense physical burden, especially for a woman living on white toast, vegetable broth, and four hours of sleep between double shifts.

After Dominic fired her, every reputable estate agency in Chicago had blacklisted her. No one would hire a disgraced maid without a reference, especially one whose abdomen was expanding week by week. Sammy’s Diner was the only place that didn't ask questions, paying her under the table in crumpled twenty-dollar bills.

"Hey, Layla!" Sammy, the burly, middle-aged diner owner, called out from the kitchen hatch. "Table four needs a coffee refill and two slice of apple pie! Chop chop, girl, you're moving like molasses tonight!"

"Coming, Sammy," Layla said softly, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

She picked up the heavy glass coffee pot and waddled slowly toward the back booth. Every step sent a sharp pain through her hips, but she forced a gentle smile onto her face. She had to survive three more weeks. If she could just save nine hundred more dollars, she could pay the deposit on a basement studio near the clinic before the babies arrived.

As she poured the steaming black coffee into the customer's mug, the front bell above the diner door chimed loudly.

A blast of sub-zero wind and freezing rain rushed into the warm diner.

"Shut the door, buddy!" a trucker yelled from a corner booth. "It’s freezing out there!"

Layla turned toward the entrance, intending to ask the newcomer to close the latch.

The coffee pot nearly slipped from her fingers for the second time in her life.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the neon glare of the storm, was a towering man in a floor-length black cashmere coat. His dark hair was dusted with melting ice, his broad shoulders blocking the wind, and his amber-gray eyes scanning the dingy interior with fierce, lethal intensity.

Dominic Gallow.

Beside him stood four heavily armed men in dark tactical jackets, their hands hovering near their concealed weapons. Among them was Marcus Vance, Julianna’s older brother, looking pale and nervous.

The entire diner fell dead silent. The truckers and late-night regulars recognized the lethal air surrounding the men. This wasn't a patron looking for midnight pancakes; this was the king of the underworld stepping into a gutter.

Layla froze behind the counter, her breath catching in her throat. Instinctively, her hands dropped to her apron, trying to cover the prominent curve of her stomach.

Dominic’s sharp gaze swept past the jukebox, past the kitchen hatch, and locked directly onto her.

His eyes narrowed.

He hadn't come here looking for her. He had been chasing an illegal arms shipment hijacked by a rival faction near the southern rail yards. But the moment his eyes landed on Layla Bennett, the multi-million-dollar cartel war vanished from his mind.

He stepped slowly into the diner, his expensive leather boots thudding heavily against the scuffed linoleum floor. He didn't look at the truckers. He didn't look at Sammy, who had backed away into the kitchen with a butcher knife in his trembling hand.

Dominic stopped two feet away from the counter.

His gaze dropped from Layla’s exhausted, pale face down to her waist.

He saw the heavy, unmistakable bulge beneath her stained apron. He saw the way she cradled it with trembling, protective hands. He calculated the months in his head with terrifying mathematical precision.

Four months since he fired her. Seven months since the masquerade gala.

"Layla," Dominic said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver through the entire diner.

Layla took a step back, her spine hitting the coffee machine. "Mr... Mr. Gallow. What are you doing here?"

Dominic reached across the counter. Before she could pull away, his large, warm hand pressed directly against the curve of her belly.

Through the thin cotton of her black dress and apron, he felt it—a strong, distinct kick from within. And then, a second kick right beside the first.

Dominic’s breath hitched. His impenetrable mask cracked, revealing a flash of raw, disbelieving shock.

"You're pregnant," he whispered, his eyes blazing with a mixture of confusion, awe, and sudden, dark realization. "Two... there are two of them."

"Leave me alone," Layla choked out, tears spilling over her lashes. "You fired me. You threw me out! I don't owe you anything!"

"Who is the father, Layla?" Dominic demanded, his grip tightening gently on her apron, pulling her closer to the counter. His voice was no longer cold; it was consumed by a quiet, possessive fury. "Tell me who touched you."

Layla looked directly into his golden-gray eyes, her grief turning into sharp, defiant anger.

"You did, Dominic," she spat, her voice trembling with five months of buried pain. "The night of the masquerade gala. In your library. You left your gold mask on the floor, and you threw me out three months later over a shattered glass!"