Billionaire CEO Receives a Call on His Wedding Day — His Black Ex-Lover Is in Labor With His Babies
Part 2 – WALKING OUT
I stared at my reflection in the antique mirror of my private suite. The man looking back was unrecognizable. Not the calculated CEO who’d methodically built his life to a blueprint, but someone wild-eyed and uncertain, standing at a crossroads he’d never anticipated.
A soft knock preceded my best man’s entrance.
“They’re ready for you, Dom. Catherine looks incredible.”
I turned slowly, a decision crystallizing in my chest like ice forming over deep water. “I need you to deliver a message.”
Marcus’s smile faltered. “What kind of message?”
“Tell Catherine and her father that I can’t go through with the wedding.”
“This is a joke, right?” He laughed nervously, his eyes searching my face for any hint of humor. Finding none, his expression shifted to alarm. “Dom, there are three hundred people out there. The governor is here. Half the tech industry flew in for this.”
“I know.” My voice was eerily calm as I removed my tie. “And I’m sorry for the spectacle this will cause. But I just received a call. Imani is in labor with my children.”
“Children? What are you talking about?”
“Imani Taylor. My ex from last year. Twins. Girls.” The words felt foreign on my tongue. “She’s at Mercy General right now.”
Marcus sank into a chair, stunned. “Jesus, Dom. Does Catherine know about any of this?”
“No one does. I thought—” I ran a hand through my perfectly styled hair, dishevelling it. “I thought Imani had terminated the pregnancy. That’s what she told me.”
“And you believed her without confirmation? That doesn’t sound like the Dominic Vega I know. The man who triple-checks every detail of a contract.”
My jaw tightened. “I wanted to believe her. It was convenient.”
The word hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Convenient for my carefully orchestrated life plan. Convenient for the merger with Whitfield Industries. Convenient for my public image as I prepared to announce a candidacy for the technology council that advised the White House.
“You can’t just leave, Dom. At least talk to Catherine first. Explain.”
“There’s no time.” I was already moving toward the door. “Imani is in labor now. Six weeks early.”
“Then send flowers. Send your lawyer. Send anyone but yourself on your wedding day.”
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Would you? If they were your daughters?”
The question silenced Marcus, who had two little girls of his own.
“Tell them whatever you think best,” I said. “That I had a medical emergency. A breakdown. Or tell them the truth, that I’m a coward who’s been living someone else’s version of a perfect life, and I just ran out of time to pretend.”
With those words, I walked out on my own wedding.
The chaos that erupted would later be described by gossip columns as nuclear. Senator Whitfield, upon hearing that his future son-in-law had fled, turned a shade of purple never before witnessed in Washington politics. “Find him,” he bellowed at security. “Bring him back here immediately.” Catherine’s reaction was more controlled but no less intense. She dismissed her bridesmaids and her mother, then methodically removed each diamond pin from her elaborate updo, placing them one by one on the vanity.
“Catherine, darling,” her mother ventured from the doorway. “The guests are asking questions. What should we tell them?”
“Tell them,” Catherine said with glacial calm, “that there will be no wedding today. And then tell Daddy to destroy him.”
The drive to Mercy General was a blur. My hands gripped the wheel of my Aston Martin so tightly my knuckles turned white. Why had Imani lied about terminating the pregnancy? Why tell me now, at the most dramatic possible moment? What would this mean for my company, my reputation, my future? And beneath those practical concerns churned deeper, more unsettling questions. What kind of man abandons his own children before they’re even born? What kind of man learns he’s about to become a father and feels only resentment and inconvenience? What kind of man was I, really, beneath the tailored suits and practiced charm?
My parents had sacrificed everything to give me opportunities. My father worked three jobs to put me through the best schools. My mother helped me with homework after long days cleaning other people’s houses. They’d instilled in me an unshakable work ethic. But somewhere along my meteoric rise, something essential had been lost. When had success become more important than humanity? When had strategic advantage replaced genuine connection? When had I become the kind of man who could coldly suggest handling an unplanned pregnancy as if it were a minor corporate crisis?
The hospital lot was nearly full, forcing me into a spot marked EXPECTANT MOTHERS ONLY. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I sprinted toward the entrance, still in my wedding tuxedo, drawing stares from everyone I passed.
“Imani Taylor,” I told the receptionist, struggling to catch my breath. “She’s in labor.”
The receptionist eyed my formal attire with raised eyebrows. “Are you family?”
“I’m the father.” The words were still strange on my tongue.
“Fourth floor, east wing, room 418.”
When I finally found her room, I paused outside the door, hearing her muffled cries through it. For a moment my courage faltered. I could still walk away. Could still pretend I’d never received the call, return to the estate, beg forgiveness for my momentary panic, marry Catherine as planned, continue my meticulously plotted ascent. But then I heard a nurse’s voice from inside.
“You’re doing great, Miss Taylor. Both babies are showing strong heartbeats.”
Both babies. My daughters. Real, not theoretical. Already here, already part of this world, whether I was prepared for them or not.
I pushed open the door, ignoring a startled nurse’s protest. “Sir, you can’t just—”
“I’m the father,” I stated, the words feeling strange yet undeniably true. “I’m staying.”
