Pregnant by the Wrong Brother Chapter 2

My dear brother, however, was not one to share the spotlight.

The rumors of Camilla keeping a boy toy—and worse, putting a wedding band on his finger—had bruised Conrad's aristocratic pride. As the golden boy of Kincaid Capital, playing second fiddle to a kept man felt like a slap in the face.

So, he arranged a private lunch to corner me.

When he sat across from me in the corner booth of the private club, he fell into a long, stunned silence, drinking in the uncanny mirror image of his own features.

"You're Jonah?" he murmured at last. "You look more like my flesh and blood than that pathetic kid Philip we have at home."

I offered a cool, faint smile. So the Kincaids had sealed the records that tightly. Even their precious heir had no idea his real brother was sitting across from him.

Then again, why would they tell him? A feral child dragged from the rust and dirt could never compare to the polished surrogate they’d groomed for society.

"I wondered what kind of gutter trash Camilla had lowered herself to keep," Conrad sneered, leaning back with practiced arrogance. "Turns out she just missed my face. But now that I'm back, don't you think it's time for the cheap knockoff to pack his bags?"

I adjusted the cuff of my jacket, completely unfazed. He had all the entitlement of a homewrecker and none of the shame. He had come here to demand a divorce, yet still acted as though he were bestowing a favor.

"Mr. Kincaid," I said softly, crossing one leg over the other, "I think you're confused. The name printed alongside Camilla's on our marriage license is mine. And I was wondering why Camilla would stoop to keeping a mistress on the side, but looking at you... I suppose the novelty makes sense."

Conrad slammed his fist onto the mahogany table. "You insolent little parasite! Just you wait. I'll make sure she throws you out with the morning trash!"

"I'll be waiting for your good news, Conrad."

When I returned home that evening, Camilla was waiting in the library, looking uncharacteristically tense. Conrad had clearly made his grievance known.

"Did you see him today?" she asked without looking up from her tablet.

"Who, darling? Your lover?" I dropped to the carpet beside her armchair, resting my forearms against her knees and looking up into her face. "Are you going to leave me for him?"

"I..." She hesitated, the words catching in her throat.

That hesitation was all the leverage I needed. As a kept husband, I didn't fear her loving someone else; I only feared her heart hardening against me entirely. So long as a sliver of affection remained, I was still on the board.

I leaned my cheek against her knee, letting a single, warm tear soak into the fabric of her trousers.

Camilla’s breath hitched. Her fingers drifted into my hair, her touch softening.

"You won't throw me away, will you, Camilla?" I whispered, my voice breaking with just the right amount of fragile desperation. "Everyone else tossed me out. You're the only one who ever took me in. In this whole world, you're all I have left."

"All you have?" she echoed, her voice trembling.

I buried my face deeper, letting the silence do the heavy lifting. Playing the victim is an art: strike the emotional nerve once or twice with precision, and then stop before it curdles into annoyance.

She didn't speak of divorce again that night.

The next morning, an envelope containing the deed to a commercial brownstone sat beside my coffee cup.

I smiled to myself. I had won that hand.

So long as Camilla refused to pull the trigger, Conrad would remain nothing more than an illicit secret in her shadow—even if he was the original, and I was merely the imitation.