They Called Her a Pregnant Gold Digger (From Grovel to Redemption #2)

1. The Dynasty Heir

Chapter one

The Dynasty Heir

The scent of industrial lemon polish hung thick in the air of the grand foyer.

I walked across the marble floor, my shoes clicking in a steady rhythm.

The high, vaulted ceilings echoed with the chaotic noise of event preparation.

I scrolled through a spreadsheet on my tablet, checking a long list of arriving vendors and caterers.

“Careful with the corners,” I warned a passing waiter carrying a stack of dining chairs.

He nodded and adjusted his grip, giving the antique side table a wide berth. I looked back down at the screen. Tonight wasn’t just a simple family dinner.

It was the highly publicized gender reveal following my twenty-week scan. My mother-in-law, Octavia, had offloaded the logistical grunt work onto my shoulders three weeks ago. I needed every floral arrangement and catered station to be beyond reproach.

I stopped beside a row of metal catering carts parked near the coat check and set the tablet on a marble console. Three silver serving trays, meant for the champagne toast, rested on the top tier of the nearest one.

I nudged the closest tray to the left, lining it up with the others just to keep my hands busy. A single misaligned napkin or a late appetizer would give Arthur another excuse to complain to the guests about my lack of pedigree.

A dull ache throbbed in my lower back. I shifted my weight off my right foot and pressed my palm flat against the base of my spine.

I leaned backward to stretch the tight muscles.

It was a familiar reminder of the baby growing inside me.

I had tolerated five months of their quiet insults for this child, convinced it would finally make me a true part of the Kensington dynasty.

Handing the doctor’s sealed envelope to the baker yesterday had taken immense willpower. Finding out the gender alongside Cassian tonight was all that mattered. Once Cassian and his family saw the reality of the baby, things would finally have to change.

“The floral arrangements go in the dining room, not here,” I muttered to myself, tapping the screen to update a vendor location.

The head catering manager, a woman in a black blazer, approached the console carrying a clipboard. She stopped beside the metal carts, waiting for my instructions. I pulled up the dining schedule and met her gaze.

“We need the secondary stations set up in the west wing by four, please,” I said. “Arthur hates waiting, so the appetizer service has to be seamless.”

The manager made a note on her clipboard. The nearby carts rattled as a delivery driver bumped past us in the foyer.

“Got it, Mrs. Kensington,” she replied. “The hot carts are loading in the service driveway right now. Do you still want the dessert displays routed through the butler’s pantry?”

“Yes, keep the prep out of sight until the reveal. Cassian wants a flawless transition between the main course and the cake.”

The manager walked away, disappearing into the maze of caterers in the dining room.

Left alone at the console, I felt the tablet in my hand vibrate with a shrill ringtone.

I looked down. Octavia’s name flashed across the screen.

She was calling from her private dressing room upstairs instead of coming down to actually assist with the logistics.

I tapped the speaker icon.

“Wren, darling. Roasted quail? It’s a bit country club for a dinner like this, don’t you think?”

Her polite, chilling tone cut through the chaos of the foyer. My mouth immediately went dry. Octavia never called to check in. Her calls from the upper wing were carefully timed, designed exclusively to remind me how little I belonged in this world.

“I finalized the menu weeks ago, Octavia,” I said, keeping my tone level. “The caterers are already prepping the main course.”

“Well, I suppose it’s too late to salvage the main course now,” her voice echoed. “I just hate to see the evening suffer from a lack of vision.”

I pressed my fingertips against the chill of the countertop. I pushed down hard on the stone, hating the way my hands shook. Fighting back only ever gave Cassian a reason to sigh and call me difficult. It was always easier to just absorb the hit, smile, and smooth things over.

“The head chef promised it pairs beautifully with the vintage Cassian picked, Octavia,” I replied. “But I can easily add a second protein if you think the older guests will complain.”

“Oh, let’s not scramble my kitchen and make a mess of things,” she said, the cruel edge of her tone unmistakable. “Just make sure the plating isn’t overly rustic. We’re hosting the entire extended Kensington family tonight, not a country barbecue.”

I swallowed the insult. I scrolled down the screen to check off a final task on the spreadsheet. I hesitated and missed the checkbox. I tapped the screen again to force the checkmark through.

“I’ll make sure it’s perfect,” I told her.

“See that you do. I’ll be down when the guests arrive.”

I tapped the red icon to end the call.

The front doors swung open. A rush of cold winter wind swept into the foyer, carrying the overpowering scent of white lilies.

I looked away from the console. Vanessa Addison breezed across the threshold.

She wore a winter coat and designer heels that snapped against the marble floor.

A stack of black legal folios rested in the crook of her arm.

Directly behind her, a delivery foreman pushed a wide cart loaded with towering floral centerpieces.

The cellophane around the blossoms crinkled as the cart’s wheels rattled into the foyer.

“Bring those in, but don’t block the archway,” Vanessa ordered the foreman, gesturing toward the center of the room. “The caterers need a clear path to the dining tables.”

The foreman nodded and pushed the cart further into the foyer.

Vanessa moved through the estate with the entitled confidence of a woman who believed she belonged here more than I did. As Cassian’s oldest friend and the Addison heiress, she constantly used my husband’s professional needs as an excuse to ignore every rule I tried to establish in my own home.

She noticed me standing by the console and stopped abruptly, forcing the rolling cart to halt behind her in the middle of the room.

“Hey, honey,” she called out, using that overly sweet tone she saved just for me. “I’m just dropping off the Addison proxy files for Arthur before the guests arrive.”

I didn’t answer. I kept my eyes locked on the white lilies on the top tier of the cart.

Vanessa stepped up to the cart, pointing at the blossoms.

“Oh, and you can take those lilies back to the truck,” she told the foreman. “Cassian hates them, and we need him relaxed tonight.”

The foreman gripped the handle of the cart, hesitating between us. I could ignore her snide comments when it came to Cassian’s business. But I was not letting her dictate the terms of my baby’s celebration.

I stepped directly into the center of the foyer and positioned myself in front of the rolling cart, refusing to let the foreman turn it around. I braced my weight against the metal frame. The sharp edge dug into my hip, but I stayed planted.

“I am Mrs. Kensington,” I told the foreman, keeping my voice low and steady. “And you will leave those exactly where they are.”

The foreman released the handle and took a step back, deciding to stay out of the crossfire.

I turned my attention back to Vanessa.

“You can leave Arthur’s files on the front console, Vanessa,” I said.

She didn’t move toward the table. She stepped closer to the cart, crowding the narrow space between us. Her vanilla perfume mixed with the fresh lilies.

She shifted the proxy files to her other arm, holding the folders up just enough to ensure I saw the Addison logo printed across the covers.

“No need to get defensive, Wren,” she said. “I’m just making sure the night is tailored to what Cassian actually likes. I know these high-society logistics overwhelm you.”

I kept my hip braced against the cart. The towering lilies blocked my view of the grand archway, leaving me cornered in the middle of the open marble. I steeled myself, ready to tell Vanessa to take her files and leave.

Footsteps echoed across the floor behind her.

A young catering assistant rushed into the foyer, a clipboard pressed against his chest. Slowing his pace to avoid the cart, he stopped a few feet away from us, his eyes darting between Vanessa and me.

“Excuse me,” the caterer said, offering a polite nod. “I need a signature before we start the table prep in the dining room.”

Vanessa shifted the files higher on her arm. She tilted her chin, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.

She knew exactly what she was doing. This was a calculated trap. She was using the caterer to force my hand. If a screaming match broke out in the foyer in front of the caterers, the gossip would travel up the stairs to Octavia’s private dressing room before the appetizers were even served.

Octavia would hear about my lack of composure. She would label me hysterical.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Kensington,” the caterer continued, holding the clipboard out toward me. “Should I stick to your layout for the serving tables in the dining room, or Ms. Addison’s revised floor plan?”

My face burned as the silence stretched across the foyer.

The delivery foreman lingered by the front doors. The caterer waited in the center of the room. Both men were watching me. Backing down in my own home was humiliating, but I couldn’t risk ruining tonight’s gender reveal over a catering layout.

Vanessa turned to me with cold amusement.

“Tell him, Wren,” she said. “We don’t want servers bumping into the elder Kensingtons just because the spacing is too tight.”

I snatched the clipboard from the caterer’s hands.

I grabbed the ballpoint pen from the board and squeezed it tight. I drove the tip onto the vendor release form, pushing so hard it nearly tore through the carbon copy beneath it. The ink scratched across the page as I scribbled my signature, struggling to keep my handwriting steady.

I clicked the pen shut and thrust the clipboard back toward the caterer. He took it, watching my flushed face.

“Use Ms. Addison’s layout for tonight,” I said. “We need to stay on schedule, so please just get it done before the guests arrive.”

Vanessa turned her back on me. Her heels clicked across the floor, fading down the corridor toward Arthur’s private study.

The suffocating scent of lilies and vanilla perfume lingered in the grand foyer, mixing with the industrial lemon polish to turn the chilled air sour and nauseating.

I gripped the edge of the console table.

The caterers buzzed past the archways, shouting orders and clattering silverware.

“Just breathe,” I whispered to myself, pushing off the stone.

I walked past the coat check and headed straight for the rear of the estate.

A row of tall French doors lined the back wall, overlooking the private grounds.

I grabbed the latch on the nearest set. The handle felt unyielding under my palm.

I pushed it down and shoved my weight against the door, forcing it outward with a creak.

A bitter draft swept across the threshold. I stepped outside onto the patio and pulled the door shut behind me. The latch caught, cutting off the noise of the caterers.

The silence of the evening washed over the stone terrace. The sudden chill bit into my flushed cheeks. I shivered, wrapping my arms tight around my chest.

The sun sat low behind the tree line, casting long shadows across the frost-covered lawn. I stepped over to the balustrade and reached into the deep pocket of my blazer. Pulling out my phone, I dialed Cassian’s private number. My hand shook as the line connected.

“Cassian, you need to talk to Vanessa,” I pleaded into the receiver. “She came into the estate and tried to override my instructions with the staff.”

Arthur barked something unintelligible in the background, followed by Cassian’s exhausted sigh. “Wren, please,” Cassian said, his tone flat and distant. “Stop overreacting. Vanessa is crucial right now, just handle the flowers and I’ll see you at dinner.”

The line clicked dead. I lowered the phone, staring at the darkened screen as the crushing weight of my isolation settled over the freezing terrace. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and fumbled for my planner.

I flipped open the cover. Tucked inside the front pocket sat a crinkled, black-and-white printout.

I pulled the ultrasound strip free. The edges of the paper were worn from how many times I had touched the image over the past month. I held it up to the fading light. The grainy shadows on the printout formed the undeniable shape of a tiny profile.

I traced the edge of the photograph. The fatigue of being a ghost in this estate threatened to hollow me out.

Every single day required a quiet battle just to prove my existence to a family that wished I would simply disappear.

I absorbed their venom in silence, terrified that fighting back would ruin my marriage.

“You’re a Kensington now, Wren. I’m going to take care of everything, and you’ll never have to fight for your place again,” Cassian had promised on our wedding night.

I squeezed the ultrasound paper. His words echoed in my mind. I remembered staring up at him in the dim light of our honeymoon suite, desperate for the security he offered.

“Promise me we’ll always be a team, Cassian. Promise me it will always be us first,” I had whispered back.

He hadn’t kept that promise. Whenever Vanessa overstepped or Arthur delivered an insult, Cassian sighed and looked the other way.

But tonight was different. The caterers were plating a celebration for our child.

Once Cassian saw the pink or blue slice pulled from the cake, the reality of our family would finally come first. He would understand what mattered. He would draw the lines to protect us.

I looked down at the grainy image and exhaled, watching my breath plume in the frigid air.

“It’s just you and me right now, little one,” I told the photograph. “But tonight is going to fix it.”

I stood alone on the freezing terrace, holding it tight and praying that tonight would be enough to finally change his mind.