Marie Ferrarella - Colton Baby Conspiracy

They wanted the message to read as if the person who wrote it was cool, calm and just a touch superior. Because I am , they thought. Superior to the lot of them. And more than just by a touch. Because once they acted on this knowledge, it would be the beginning of their downfall.

It might take a week, or a month or even a year—although they doubted it would take that long—but they would definitely fall.

A smug smile curved their lips as they relished the thought and looked forward to the day all of this would come together.

For what felt like the hundredth time, they scanned the words on the computer screen. Words they had been tweaking and tinkering with for what felt like an eternity now.

They would really love to sign a name to the email, but in order for this to work, to avoid intense scrutiny and questioning, the source generating this had to be thought of as anonymous.

One last time, they read each word very slowly.

To: Colton Oil Board Members Listserv

From: Classified

Subject: Colton Oil CEO Ace Colton is NOT a real Colton

Ace Colton, born 40 years ago on Christmas Day in Mustang Valley General Hospital, was switched at birth with another newborn baby boy in the nursery. This shocking truth can be confirmed with a simple DNA test that will prove Ace is not a Colton by blood. Since the Colton Oil bylaws state the CEO must be a biological Colton, Ace must be ousted. I will provide you with no further information, but rest assured this bombshell is the tip of the iceberg.

Good Day

As their eyes rested on the last word, they felt their smile widen, even more smug and far more self-satisfied than it had ever been.

“Perfect.”

Now there was nothing left to do but send this email to all six members of the Colton Oil board—and then sit back, calmly waiting for the fireworks to start going off.

With a mixed surge that was composed of equal parts excitement and confidence, they handed the computer over to their tech expert. This trusted employee had organized the logistics of this mission and would continue to monitor it. They pressed Send.

“And now it begins!”

Marlowe Colton had always thought that one of the perks of being the president of Colton Oil was having her very own private, luxurious en suite bathroom installed within her rather cavernous office.

An en suite bathroom where she was currently having her very own private nervous breakdown as she stared at a small white stick that had the audacity to mock her with a glaring pink plus sign.

Her breathing grew shorter and more erratic as she continued to stare at the awful, incriminating stick. Her stomach kept tightening until it had twisted itself into a hard, painful knot.

Marlowe realized that she was sweating even as she felt a cold chill shooting down her spine and passing over every part of her body.

And the nausea was back. In spades. Any second now, she was going to throw up.

Again.

“No, you’re a Colton,” she told the unusually pale blonde looking back at her in the mirror. “You’re not going to throw up. You’re not!” she insisted.

Marlowe blinked back tears. They weren’t tears of joy, or tears of sorrow. What she felt stinging her eyes were angry tears. Angry tears that were aimed at no one but herself.

How could she have let this happen? One stupid moment of intoxicated but entirely willing weakness and longing and now here she was, in the throes of morning sickness.

It wasn’t possible.

It wasn’t .

And yet the stick in her hand told her it was all too possible.

It was a reality.

The white stick had come out of the discarded white box that was now haphazardly sitting on the edge of the sink. The pharmacist had assured her that this product was supposed to be the best, the most accurate pregnancy test on the market. She truly doubted that it had made a mistake.

Besides, if she was being completely honest with herself, the thought that she was pregnant had been in the back of her mind for the last six weeks. Ever since she had lost her head and her iron grip on her emotions by succumbing to the sexy, dark good looks and charms that she had been all but bred to hate. Because the man on the other side of that bed six weeks ago had a father who hated her father, and that feeling was very, very mutual.

What in the name of all that was good and proper had she been thinking? Marlowe silently demanded of her reflection.

That was just it—she hadn’t been thinking. For once in her career-driven life, she hadn’t been thinking at all, just feeling. Or at least telling herself that she’d been feeling. Feeling an overwhelming attraction to a man she had viewed as the enemy for as far back as she could remember.

This was what came of trying to behave civilly toward someone who she had been taught did not deserve to be treated with any sort of respect.

All of her life, Marlowe had done exactly what was expected of her—and then some. She was a Colton, and Coltons were supposed to behave a certain way. At least Payne Colton’s daughter was supposed to behave in a certain way.

She closed her eyes, fighting another strong, rising wave of stomach-lining-destroying nausea as it tried to claw its way up her throat.

If only she hadn’t gone to that stupid energy conference...

Or, at the very least, if she hadn’t spent so much time arguing with Bowie Robertson, president of Robertson Renewable Energy Company, over proposed pipelines and the environmental consequences they could have. The argument went on and on relentlessly until everyone else at the conference had withdrawn for the night. That left just the two of them to continue the argument on their own.

How heated words had somehow given way to splitting a bottle of champagne—or had that been two bottles?—she still really wasn’t clear about. But somewhere along the line, their different philosophies and the eternal ongoing rivalries that defined their lives had just somehow managed to melt away, leaving nothing to get in the way of a very real and exceedingly strong attraction that had mysteriously taken root and been growing between them for who knew how long.

Marlowe could remember only bits and pieces of their night together after that. One of those bits and pieces had included a very strong desire to be, for once in her life, swept away, for the space of at least that one isolated evening.

An evening that became free of thoughts about rivalries, corporate profits and even the ever-increasing concerns about green energy being a threat to her family’s oil company.

Just one carefree evening, that was all she had wanted, Marlowe thought.

And now this stick and its menacing, mocking pink cross were exacting a price for those frivolous few hours of passion she had spent.

A price she had never, even in her wildest dreams, been prepared to face up to and pay.

That wasn’t to say that she didn’t want children. She did, Marlowe thought. She did want children. But just not now .

And definitely not with him .

They hadn’t even spoken a single word to each other since that fateful night, as if silence was actually an acceptable way of denying that those few hours of unabashed passionate consorting—of wild, consensual lovemaking —had ever happened.

But not talking about it, not acknowledging that it took place, was not a way of wiping that night’s existence out of the annals of time. The pregnancy test clearly testified that it had happened, she thought ruefully, frowning at the offending mark on the white stick. And that, in turn, had most definitely produced a consequence. A very big consequence.