My Husband Wants An Open Marriage (Julie and Ryan)
Open Billionaire 75

CHAPTER 075. Two Lines Or On?

CHAPTER 075: Two Lines Or One?

Ryan? Here? In my office?

I sit there for a second, gripping the arms of my chair. Susan stands by the door, clearly uncomfortable with the tension I'm radiating.

"Should I... send him away?" she says.

The temptation to scream, 'Yes, send him back to whatever rock he crawled out from,' comes for a second. But instead, I smooth my expression, plastering on a look of indifference. I can be professional about this. "No," I say. "Send him in."

Susan gives me a small nod, relief flashing across her face as she retreats.

My stomach twists in anticipation, a mixture of anger, confusion, and-God help me-curiosity. What the hell is he doing here? And right after my mother's bombshell text?

The door opens, and there he is. Ryan O'Brien, in the flesh. He looks the same as he always has: tall, broad-shouldered, exuding that maddening air of effortless charm that first drew me to him. His suit fits perfectly, of course, dark navy that probably cost more than most people's cars.

His eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail of my office-the modern furniture, the panoramic window view, the small but tasteful décor that screams "new boss in town."

I stay silent, watching him as he takes it all in. Something about the way he moves, calm and deliberate, makes me feel unbalanced. My mother's text echoes in my head-Ryan is dying. Cancer. He has one year to live.

But he doesn't look like a dying man. There's no weakness, no frailty. He's still Ryan: infuriatingly vibrant, maddeningly confident, and right now, entirely out of place in my office. I guess he's still in the early stages of whatever he has.

He turns his gaze to me, and his lips curve into a faint smile. "Nice office."

"What do you want, Ryan?" I say.

"You. But that's out of the question, isn't it?"

I glare at him, unamused. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense. Can you just get to the point?"

He chuckles, strolling further into the room and lowering himself into the chair across from my desk. He's so casual about it, like we're old friends catching up instead of two people locked in a battle of mutual resentment. "I was in the building," he says. "Had a meeting with your CEO. Decided to stop by and congratulate you." "Thank you," I say stiffly. "And... I heard about your health. Sorry."

For a moment, his expression falters. It's subtle-just a flicker of surprise before he recovers, leaning back in the chair with that same infuriating calm.

"Oh, right," he says. "My cancer. Something's got to kill a man, right?"

"I guess. You're handling it well."

"Should I cry about it?"

That makes me laugh. The sound surprises me, and I quickly straighten, schooling my face back into neutrality. There's no reason to be friendly, dying or not. +25 BONUS

CHAPTER 075 Two Lines Or On8?

He's looking at me in a strange way, one that makes my sk crawl.

"You look different," he says, his tone almost curious.

"What?"

"I don't know," he says, tilting his head. "Your new boyfriend must be treating you right. Are those push-ups?"

I blink, completely thrown off. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've never worn push-up bras," he says, as if it's the most normal observation in the world. "Your breasts seem rounder. Higher."

For a moment, I'm too shocked to respond. Did he seriously just-?

"Thank you for stopping by, Mr. O'Brien," I say. "You can see yourself out now."

Ryan doesn't move right away. He just sits there, still staring at me with that same unsettling intensity.

"Alright," he says, standing up and straightening his jacket. He walks to the door but pauses, turning back to look at me one last time.

"See you soon," he says.

"I'll see you at the trial."

He smirks, nodding. "I'll be there."

And with that, he's gone, leaving the door ajar behind him.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the empty doorway. My hands tremble slightly, and I ball them into fists, digging my nails into my palms.

The nerve. The audacity. How dare he come here, waltzing into my office like he owns the place, throwing casual comments about my body like we're still married, like he hasn't spent the past few months making my life a living hell. And yet...

Something about the way he said, "You look different," niggles at me.

Different how? Different good? Different bad? And what in the world gave him the right to notice?

I shake my head, pushing away the memory. Still, my hands move to smooth my blouse, then to tug at my bra. It's not a push-up, for the record. It's just... a bra. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of even caring about his opinion. But his words won't leave me alone.

I glance at the door, half expecting him to come back and say something equally maddening. When he doesn't, I grab my phone, intending to check my emails-anything to focus on work-but my reflection in the darkened screen catches my eye. A moment later, I'm walking into the bathroom.

The mirror in here isn't kind. Overhead fluorescent lights beam down, highlighting every imperfection: the slight bags under my eyes, the stubborn pimple near my temple that refuses to leave, the faint lines starting to form around my mouth. But then... I lean closer, tilting my head. Do I... look different?

2/4

+25 BONUS

CHAPTER 075: Two Lines Or On

Luke said I was glowing the other day.

"Glowing," I mutter to myself. Glowing is just another way of saying, 'Hey, you don't look as dead inside as usual.

I step back, running my hands through my hair, studying my face like I'm some sort of specimen under a microscope. My skin does look clearer. And my cheeks... are they fuller? No, that's ridiculous.

I trail my gaze down, pausing at my chest.

Ryan's comment floats back into my head, and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach up, touching my boobs.

Oh.

They feel... different. Sore, maybe? Full? I don't know, but there's something off.

My stomach twists.

No.

Nope. It can't be.

I stare at my reflection, my brain running a mile a minute. When wa

my last period?

A pause.

It's fine, right? It's just late. I've never been regular. I mean, there was that one time in college when I went three months without one. Totally normal. Hormones. Stress. My body's weird like that. By my calculation, it's been two months.

My heart starts pounding. I think back to the morning nausea that's been plaguing me lately. The random bouts of dizziness. I thought it was just the stress of the divorce, the new job, the general chaos of my life. "Oh my God," I whisper.

I grab my purse and storm out of the bathroom. My mind is made up before I even process what I'm doing. Susan looks up from her desk as I pass, concern flashing across her face. "Everything okay, Ms. Jenkins?"

"I'll be back," I say, practically sprinting to the elevator.

*

The pharmacy is a ten-minute drive from the office. It takes a year to get there-or at least it feels like it. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, ping-ponging between panic and denial. You're overreacting. It's nothing.

What if it's not nothing?

It's definitely nothing.

By the time I push through the glass doors, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is racing like I've just run a marathon. The fluorescent lights inside feel even harsher than the ones in the office bathroom, but I march straight to the family planning aisle, determined to get this over with.

The shelves are lined with boxes-digital tests, two-packs, early detection, rapid results. My eyes dart between them, overwhelmed. Why are there so many options? Do I want something digital? CHAPTER 075 Two Linds in 28

I grab the first box that claims instant results.

At the checkout counter, the cashier gives me a polite, professional smile.

"Will this be all?"

I nod, avoiding eye contact like a teenager buying condoms for the first time.

"Have a nice day!"

+26 BONUS

I mumble something incoherent in response and bolt out of the store, clutching the small paper bag like it's a

lifeline.

The plan was to wait until I got back to the office to take the test, but patience has never been my strong suit. I run back inside, heading for the restroom.

The store's restroom is small, clean enough, and completely empty.

Perfect.

I lock myself in a stall, fumbling with the box like a lunatic. The instructions are straightforward, but my hands are shaking so badly it takes me twice as long to get through them.

Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes.

Easy.

I follow the steps, my heart hammering against my ribcage the entire time. Three minutes feel like an eternity, and I spend every second of it pacing the tiny stall, biting my nails, and debating whether I even want to look. *What do I want to see?

Two lines or one?

My palms are sweaty, and I rub them on my skirt. I've never been good with uncertainty. I like answers, conclusions, clear-cut paths. This? This is torture.

The seconds crawl by, each one dragging its feet like it's relishing my torment. I check my phone. A mistake. Only a minute has passed.

"Come on, come on, come on," I whisper, glaring at the test from faraway like I can will it to speed up the process. My voice bounces off the walls, and I realize how pathetic I sound, talking to a piece of plastic soaked in my own urine. The timer on my phone goes off, startling me. My fingers fumble as I silence the alarm. The moment of truth.

I take a deep breath, my hand trembling as I reach for the test. I can't tell if it's excitement or dread coursing through me.

The test sits in my hand, the results staring back at me.

Two lines.