She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 42

Chapter 42 The Silicone Solution

(Sonia)

I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom and replay the night on a loop.

Julian’s voice. The crowded room. The way Chase said nothing.

Is this some new kind of pregnancy diet, where the fetus makes you lose weight and doesn’t grow?

The words have burrowed under my skin.

Every time I close my eyes, I hear them again, delivered in that lazy, amused drawl, loud enough for half the room to hear.

He humiliated me.

I pressed my hands over my flat stomach and told a roomful of Los Angeles’ most powerful people that I’m carrying small because I’m petite.

Nobody believed me.

I could see it on their faces.

The polite frowns. The exchanged glances.

The way Chase looked down at my waistline, just for a second, with something flickering behind his eyes that terrified me.

Doubt.

The plan is still salvageable. It has to be.

Losing Chase now means losing everything.

The future I’ve spent years building inside my head, brick by painstaking brick.

I pick up my phone and dial Dr. Evans.

He answers on the second ring, his voice immediately tight with anxiety.

He always sounds like that when I call now.

Good. Nervous men are useful men. And he should remember whose side he’s on.

“I need to see you,” I tell him. “Not at the clinic. Somewhere private.”

A short, strained silence. “Miss Morton, your next scheduled appointment isn’t until-”

“I didn’t ask about your schedule,” I interrupt before he gets going.

“I need to see you today. It’s urgent.”

He agrees, of course. He always agrees.

We met an hour later at a quiet hotel bar in Brentwood.

The kind of place where the booths have high backs and the staff are trained to look straight ahead.

Dr. Evans arrives five minutes late, tugging at his collar, and slides into the seat across from me with the energy of

Chapter 2 The Bicone Solution

C

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a man who has made one too many bad decisions and can feel them catching up.

Telide a coffee toward him and smile warmly.

“I have a problem,” I tell him “And you’re going to help me solve it.”

He wraps both hands around the mug.

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind that becomes your problem if it isn’t handled quickly.”

I keep my voice light and pleasant, the way you speak to someone you’ve already outsmarted.

“People are starting to notice I’m not showing. I need to look pregnant. Convincingly. Starting immediately.”

The color drains from his face.

“Miss Morton,” he begins carefully. “What you’re suggesting is-”

“I’m not suggesting anything yet. I’m explaining the situation.”

I tilt my head prettily.

“I need a silicone prosthetic belly. I’ve done some research. There are companies that manufacture them for theatrical and medical use. They move naturally when you walk. Under clothing they’re completely undetectable.”

I pause.

“I need you to tell me exactly what stage I should order for a woman supposedly in her twelfth to fourteenth week. Soft, low, barely visible, but there.”

Dr. Evans stares at me.

“And I need ultrasound images,” I continue.

“Printed, formatted correctly, with the right measurements for the stage I’m at. You can use someone else’s and just replace their name with mine.”

“This is fraud,” Dr. Evans whispers.

“This is keeping up appearances,” I correct him pleasantly.

“The same appearances I’ve been paying for since I walked into your clinic the first time.”

He looks down at his coffee. A muscle works in his jaw.

I wait. Patience is not usually one of my better qualities, but I can see he needs a little time.

“A twelve-week prosthetic should sit low and small,” he finally says, his voice barely audible.

“Rounded at the base. Nothing dramatic. It needs to look like early bloating more than a visible bump.

He swallows. “You’ll need to upgrade in five or six weeks.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously. And the scans?”

He exhales slowly through his nose. The sound of a man abandoning what remains of his professional ethics.

“I’ll fake them for you.”

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“Good,” I say, gathering my bag. “I knew you’d be helpful.”

Evans looks up at me with something miserable and defeated in his eyes.

“Miss Morton,” he says quietly. “How long do you intend to keep this going? You understand that the prosthetic won’t fool arryone when you’re naked?”

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