All Chapters of Pregnant by the Playboy Heir : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Mallory’s POVThe message sat on my screen for almost ten minutes before I sent it.Can we talk?That was it,Short and simple. But if there’s one thing I know about Jace, it’s that he always reads between the lines.A few seconds later, he replied.When?Tomorrow.Espresso Lounge.I waited.Then:Fine.I started grinning for real.Charlotte Hayes had been around for months, but somehow, I still couldn’t accept she’d actually won. Women like her never kept men like Jace forever. Guys like Jace always find their way back to what feels safe. Familiar. And I intended to show him exactly what that felt like.---Jace’s POVEspresso Lounge hadn’t changed.Same soft jazz. Same dim lights. Same rich people pretending not to eavesdrop.Mallory was already there when I walked in.She looked up fast.We just stared at each other for a second, neither one saying anything. Then she smiled.“Hi.”“Hi.”Couldn’t think of anything less awkward.It was right there between us—months of fighting, sile

Zena’s POVCharlotte Hayes always got sloppy when she got worked up. Lately, that flaw just kept growing.I sat on my couch, Charlotte’s phone mirrored to my laptop, scrolling through her texts while easy music drifted in the background. It didn’t take long—less than twenty minutes and I’d cracked her backup. Rich people never thought anyone could guess their passwords. They always underestimated how predictable they were.At first, her texts were so dull I almost bailed. Stuff about court. Bruce’s breakdowns. Notes on Silver Crest Holdings. Grocery lists, reminders—nothing juicy.But then Bruce’s name started showing up. Once. Twice. Then over and over.Curiosity won. I opened the thread—and my smile faded as I read.Bruce:If you leave me after everything I sacrificed for you, I’ll tell them the baby is mine.Bruce:You know that child is mine, Charlotte.Bruce:We lived together for years. Don’t act innocent now.I leaned back and sucked in a breath.“Oh my God…”It was like someon

Charlotte’s POVScotland’s chill was nothing like Atlanta’s. It didn’t bite right away—it just seeped in. After a while, you stopped noticing how the wet stuck to everything or how the drizzle hung around long after the sun came up.I hated it at first.But now I liked the quiet. No one in Edinburgh recognized me or cared who Charlotte Hayes was. No sympathy stares, no whispers about fake pregnancies, no one knowing I used to live in a house that needed a map.Here, I blended in. Just another woman trying to get by.Honestly? That felt better than being Mrs. Jace Norman ever did.I slipped my key into the lock just after seven, glancing at the sign above the door. Charlotte Beauty Lounge. It's still weird to see my name up there.Mine.Actually, mine.No Norman money propping it up. No contracts. No twisted deals. No billionaires lurking in the background.Just me.The smell of shampoo and hair products always hit me first—clean, reliable, safe. The place wasn’t much: three chairs, tw

Zena’s POV Something about Mallory just got under my skin.It wasn’t the way she’d fill a room with noise or start drama over basically nothing. That part was almost predictable. What bothered me was how hard it had become to figure her out.So there I was, hovering at the dining table well past midnight—laptop open, hunting through years of articles, Instagram posts, snapped photos nobody should’ve kept, and even trashy gossip blogs. Anything tied to Mallory and Jace, I wanted it. I expected to catch a mistake. Something in the timeline. Maybe another man. A secret Mallory hoped nobody’d notice.Instead, I kept running into the same damn thing: history. Photo after photo. Mallory and Jace glowing at charity events, on yachts, wrapped around each other on a balcony in Miami, laughing like they could never break. I swear every search just brought up more of them, tangled together—breakups, makeups, constant drama that rich people like to call love.I leaned back in my chair and sighed

Jace’s POVI went back to the café.Same building. Same tables. That never-changing jazz still trickling out of the speakers.The waitress from last week glanced at me without recognition—like I was just another customer.“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “Mallory Kane. Blonde. Sits by the window.”She frowned, polite but blank. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know the name.”I just stared.“She was here with me.”She gave me that uncomfortable, customer-service smile. “A lot of people come here.”I yanked out my phone. Opened my texts.Nothing.Every message Mallory ever sent—gone. The whole conversation just wiped out, like it’d never happened.Pressure squeezed my chest.I checked my calls. Nothing there, either.And that’s when panic set in—not dramatic, more like this steady, crawling dread that gets inside your head and starts pulling out questions you don’t want to ask.I left and drove straight to Mallory’s apartment building.The elevator dragged upward, way too slow. My nerves burned