I Only Wanted An Heir Not A Husband

Summary

I was getting a manicure when Rhys’s ninety-ninth mistress cornered me.

She slapped an ultrasound image down on the marble countertop. “You’re Rhys Blackwell’s wife, right? I’m pregnant. You need to file for divorce now.”

I glanced at the grainy printout, then skillfully pulled out a stack of documents—evidence of her own extracurricular activities—and slid them across to her.

Her attitude executed a perfect 180-degree turn. She tore up the ultrasound.

“I’ll leave Rhys immediately!”

I admired my fresh manicure. Blood-red, it had taken eight hours of meticulous work.