Page 47 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

“The Munich distribution centers will be operational by November,” I tell Klaus as we wrap up our video conference. “All permits have been approved, and your local partners have confirmed staffing schedules.”

Klaus Mueller’s weathered face creases into what passes for a smile on the laptop screen. Behind him, I can see his pristine Munich office with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Bavarian cityscape.

“Excellent, Mrs. Moretti. Your coordination has made this expansion remarkably smooth. The bureaucratic challenges alone could have delayed us for months.”

Alaric leans back in his chair beside me, reviewing the contracts we’ve just finalized. Three months of negotiations concluded in a handshake agreement that will generate millions in legitimate revenue over the next five years.

His hand rests casually on my thigh under the conference table, a gesture of intimacy that’s become second nature since our perfect evening in the garden three days ago.

I can still feel the echo of his touch from that night, the way he worshiped my changing body with reverent hands and whispered promises about our future. We made love with an intensity that felt eternal, both of us believing we’ve finally found something real and lasting.

“There is one more matter,” Klaus says, his formal expression softening slightly. “Something personal, if I may.”

“Of course,” I reply, Alaric’s thumb tracing small circles on my leg.

“I understand congratulations are in order. You are expecting your first child?”

“Yes, in February.”

“Wunderbar! As it happens, I have something that might interest you.” He reaches off-camera and returns with a thick hardbound book, its dark blue cover embossed with gold lettering. “German medical text on pregnancy and childbirth. Quite comprehensive, used in our finest hospitals.”

He holds the book up to the camera so I can read the title clearly: Schwangerschaft und Geburt: Ein umfassender Leitfaden.

“This is very thoughtful, Klaus.”

“German medical practices are quite advanced,” Klaus continues, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

“This contains information you won’t find in American texts.

Research on prenatal nutrition, birthing techniques, postpartum care developed over generations of German mothers.

Consider it essential reading for any intelligent woman preparing for motherhood. ”

Alaric squeezes my thigh gently. “That’s generous of you, Klaus.”

“Nonsense. Mrs. Moretti’s linguistic skills and cultural understanding have been invaluable to our partnership.

This is merely a small token of appreciation.

” Klaus straightens his tie, returning to business mode.

“I’ll have it shipped immediately. Express delivery to arrive within forty-eight hours. ”

“I look forward to reading it,” I tell him truthfully.

“Excellent. The German medical terminology may present some challenges, but I have complete confidence in your abilities.”

After we end the call, Alaric turns to me with an amused expression. “A German pregnancy manual?”

“Klaus believes in thorough preparation for everything. You’ve seen his contracts—every contingency planned three steps ahead.”

“Are you actually going to read it?”

“Of course. It’ll be good practice too. Reading an entire medical text in German will challenge my comprehension skills beyond business vocabulary.”

“My brilliant wife, never missing an opportunity to learn something new.”

He pulls me closer, his mouth finding the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me shiver.

“The staff will worry if we’re late for dinner,” I murmur, even as I lean into his kiss.

“Let them worry.”

His hand slides to my growing belly, fingers splaying possessively over the gentle curve. “How’s our little one today?”

“Active. I think all this business talk is stimulating.”

“Good. I want our child to be engaged with the world, and curious about everything.”

The book arrives exactly forty-eight hours later, delivered by Klaus’s preferred courier service in protective packaging that could survive a bombing. Even thicker than it appeared on camera, the volume weighs at least three pounds and contains nearly six hundred pages of dense German text.

I flip through sections, noting detailed diagrams of fetal development, charts comparing different birthing positions, extensive footnotes referencing European medical studies.

“Jesus,” Alaric observes, watching me struggle to hold the massive book. “Klaus wasn’t exaggerating about comprehensive.”

“This is going to require serious concentration. The medical terminology alone will slow me down considerably.”

“Where will you read it?”

“The library, I think. I can close the door and focus completely without interruptions.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Weeks, probably. Maybe months if I really want to understand everything thoroughly.”

Thursday afternoon finds me settling into my chosen spot. It’s the wingback chair by the east window where afternoon sunlight creates perfect reading conditions.

The library smells like leather and aged paper and the fresh flowers Maria arranges weekly. I can hear Alaric’s voice through the closed door as he handles conference calls in his office.

I’ve gathered my German-English medical dictionary, a notepad for unfamiliar terms, and a glass of the herbal tea Dr. Patterson recommended for morning sickness.

Chapter one discusses prenatal nutrition with characteristic German precision.

Every vitamin analyzed, every mineral requirement calculated, every potential dietary consideration examined from multiple angles.

The scientific approach appeals to me—facts rather than opinions, research rather than folklore.

I reach for my dictionary only twice in the first ten pages, pleased with my comprehension level.

Chapter two covers fetal development month by month with illustrations that fascinate and overwhelm me simultaneously.

According to the text, our baby is now approximately ten centimeters long with fully formed fingers and toes.

The nervous system develops rapidly at this stage, and the child can already make small movements.

The clinical descriptions make our pregnancy feel more real somehow. Not just morning sickness and clothing adjustments, but actual human development happening inside my body. A person growing from cells into someone who will eventually call me mother.

I’m completely absorbed in a detailed section about fourth-month development when something changes in the air around me.

A scent drifts through the library that makes every nerve ending in my body scream immediate danger. Expensive cologne with notes of bergamot and cedar. Rich, distinctive, unmistakable.

The same cologne that clung to silk ties and Egyptian cotton shirts. The same scent that filled elegant restaurants and exclusive hotels during my years with him. The same fragrance that lingered on pillowcases after nights I tried to forget.

My blood turns to ice in my veins.

Every primitive instinct screams at me to run, but my body has completely forgotten how to move. The German pregnancy manual trembles violently in my hands as primal terror floods my nervous system.

It’s impossible. He’s dead. I was at his funeral. I watched them lower him into the ground.

But that scent belongs to only one person in the entire world.

The heavy book slips from my nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sound like thunder in the sudden silence. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I can hear nothing else as I slowly, slowly raise my eyes toward the library doorway.

Dante stands there.

Very much alive.

Thinner than I remember, with new scars cutting ugly lines across his left cheek. And wait, did he try to have…plastic surgery?

His dark hair is shorter, swept back from a face that’s lost the softness of youth.

But the smile is exactly the same.

That cold, predatory smile that promised pain disguised as pleasure.

“Hello, princess,” he says, his voice completely devoid of human warmth. “Miss me?”

The scream that rips from my throat echoes through the mansion like a siren, raw and primal and completely beyond my control.

My hand flies instinctively to cover my pregnant belly, protecting my child.

“Now, now,” Dante says, stepping fully into the library. “Is that any way to greet your beloved fiancé?”

“You’re dead,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” His laugh makes goose bumps rise on my skin. “Though I must say, recovery has been quite the adventure.”

He moves closer, and I can see more details of his survival. Burn scars on his hands, a slight limp in his left leg, something wrong with his left eye that makes him blink more frequently.

“How?” The word comes out as a croak.

“Private jets have emergency protocols, princess. Ejection seats, survival equipment, contingency plans for exactly this type of situation.” He traces one of his scars absently. “Though I admit the landing was less than graceful.”

Even as I scream again, the horrifying realization crashes over me like ice water.

The security camera malfunctions. The mysterious figures in the distance.

It was all him. All of it.