My Coworker Blackmailed Me Over My Pregnancy — He Didn’t Know Who The Father Was
Part 1
I spent my entire thirty-two years mastering the art of invisibility.
It was a survival mechanism, one largely afforded to me by my physical size.
In a world that worshipped sharp angles, hollowed cheeks, and women who looked like they could snap in a stiff breeze, I was undeniably, unapologetically fat.
I had broad, soft shoulders, thick thighs, and a heavy, rounded stomach that I typically draped in oversized cashmere cardigans and loose dresses.
For most of my life, I bitterly resented that invisibility.
But for the last six months, it had been my absolute greatest weapon.
I worked as the senior forensic accountant for Robinson Logistics, a towering glass and steel corporation situated in the wealthy enclave of Chicago.
On paper, it was a legitimate and highly profitable import-export empire.
In truth, it served as the perfectly laundered cover for the Robinson mob.
I kept my head down, my practical leather shoes silent on the marble floors, and my mouth strictly shut.
My invisibility worked flawlessly until I saved the life of Greg Robinson, a terrifying spectre of a man who ruled his empire with cold, calculated brutality.
What happened between us was desperate, raw, and earth-shattering.
For one night, I wasn’t invisible, but the center of a dangerous man’s universe.
When dawn broke, I convinced myself it was a fever dream, a mistake between a king of the underworld and a plus-size bookkeeper.
Two months later, the violent nausea started.
I sat on the cold tile of my cramped bathroom, staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick.
I was pregnant with the heir to the Robinson syndicate.
Panic set in instantly, knowing a man like him wouldn’t let his bloodline walk away.
He would take the child, and I would be trapped in a gilded cage for the rest of my life.
So, I hid it.
As the baby grew, I simply bought larger, thicker cardigans.
I thought I could quietly transfer to a branch in Seattle by my third trimester and disappear into the rain.
I hadn’t counted on the karma of the Robinson organization coming back to bite me.
And I certainly hadn’t counted on Brian Patel.
Reaching the second trimester meant my bodily exhaustion could no longer be brushed aside.
I was fast-tracking my transfer when I found the massive discrepancies in Brian’s accounts.
Brian was a slick, overly cologned mid-level manager who handled the logistics for the South Side distribution hubs.
He always treated me with a thinly veiled disgust, making passive-aggressive comments about my diet.
As I ran the numbers, my dislike crystallized into cold, professional dread.
Brian was skimming nearly two hundred thousand dollars, a fatal offense in our organization.
I compiled the evidence on a secure flash drive, intending to drop it anonymously.
But before I could make the drop, my body betrayed me with sharp round ligament pain that sent me directly to the maternity ward.
I hadn’t noticed Brian’s black Mercedes trailing me.
The next morning, Brian cornered me in the basement archives, the air stale with the smell of ozone and old paper.
He stepped out from behind a row of filing cabinets, blocking my path to the elevator.
His eyes dropped to my heavy, draped torso, gleaming with malicious triumph.
He knew I was pregnant, and he demanded I adjust the margins to hide his theft.
He threatened to go straight to the gossip mill and expose my condition to the whole building, getting me fired.
Brian thought he was being clever, assuming I was just a lonely woman hiding a shameful secret.
He had absolutely no idea that the baby he was threatening belonged to the apex predator of our world.
Anxiety pulled at my nerves like a stretched wire, fraying more by the minute.
Greg was already back in Chicago, looking leaner, darker, and more dangerous than ever.
He had been looking for me, his lethal instincts already pinging.
Trapped between a blackmailer and a mafia boss whose obsession was breaking through his control, I tried to flee.
I booked a one-way flight to Seattle, grabbing my heavy wool coat and heading for the service elevator.
I made it to the dimly lit underground garage, fumbling for my keys.
Brian stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, lunging forward to grab me by the shoulders.
He slammed me hard against the car, and I screamed, crossing my arms over my abdomen to protect my son.
Suddenly, Brian’s weight was violently ripped away from me.
Standing over his crumpled, groaning body was Tyler, Greg’s massive head of security.
Tyler’s knuckles were bleeding as he looked directly at me and told me Mr. Robinson wanted to see me in the penthouse, immediately.
Trembling uncontrollably, I allowed Tyler to escort me up to the sixtieth floor.
The doors opened directly into Greg’s massive, intimidating penthouse office.
He set his whiskey glass down, drew his customized Colt, and set it flat on the mahogany desk.
The click of the metal echoed like a gunshot.
Greg demanded to know what leverage Brian had on me.
I lied, a tear escaping down my pale cheek, but Greg was a man who survived by noticing the smallest details.
With a swift, decisive movement, he pulled my heavy wool coat open.
Underneath, my thin maternity blouse clung to the undeniable, perfectly round, six-month swell of my stomach.
The mafia boss stared at my abdomen, completely, utterly shocked as his brilliant mind did the math in a fraction of a second.
His usual icy facade completely broke, giving way to a feral, consuming rage.
“Tell me who the father is,” he demanded, his voice a lethal, vibrating whisper that sucked the oxygen from the room.
