When My Bentley Carried His Pregnant Wife

There was this guy at the office who lived for spreading rumors about female coworkers.

When one woman wore a bodycon dress, he’d joke she was “definitely into kinky stuff after hours.”

When another got promoted with a raise, he’d claim she “slept her way to the top” with the boss.

When he saw me leaving work in a Bentley, jealousy ate him alive. He started telling people I had three sugar daddies.

He even followed me and cut me off in traffic.

“Driving so fast, you got a sugar daddy waiting?”

I just snarled back:

“You’re wasting my time, and you’ll regret this!”

Turns out, I was speeding because there was a pregnant woman in labor in my backseat.

And that woman? His wife.

On the way to the hospital, some guy in a Volkswagen cut me off three times on purpose.

I was in a rush, so I let it go.

But my patience only egged him on.

BANG.

He forced me to a complete stop.

When I rolled down my window and got a good look at his face, I realized it was Dylan Pierce—that guy from work who loved labeling everyone.

He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he swaggered out of his car, looking all smug and mocking.

“Driving so fast, you got a sugar daddy to service?”

A luxury car getting cut off downtown quickly drew a crowd.

“This is wild. Some dude in a beat-up VW picking a fight with a Bentley? He must have a death wish.”

I’d had enough. I pushed open my door and stepped out.

“Dylan, there’s an emergency. Move out of my way before you regret it.”

But he didn’t care.

He glanced at the Bentley logo and sneered.

“Emergency?”

He raised his voice, making sure everyone around could hear.

“Your emergency’s meeting your sugar daddy, right? Can’t wait to service your client—hope you can keep up with his demands.”

“Makes sense. How else would a regular employee afford a Bentley unless she’s selling herself?”

His words lit up the crowd.

“See? Told you. No office worker drives a Bentley. She’s definitely a sugar baby.”

“Gross. Stay back—might catch something.”

The crowd’s admiring looks at the luxury car turned to daggers aimed at me.

I let out a bitter laugh.

What, rich families don’t have daughters?

But right then, the pregnant woman in the backseat—Pearl Anderson—was clutching her heavily pregnant belly, face ashen with pain.

If I didn’t get her to the hospital soon, someone could die!

Seeing me stay quiet, Dylan got bolder.

He stepped closer, spittle flying as he talked.

“Cat got your tongue? Feeling guilty?”

“Hey princess, why not share your secrets for landing a Bentley?”

“I’m sure everyone here would love to know.”

The crowd snickered and nodded along.

Their judgmental stares burned into me.

I felt suffocated.

I clenched my fists, jaw tight enough to crack.

“Whether my money’s clean or not is none of your business.”

“Your wife is in the car, she is in labor. If something happens because of your games, you’ll regret it forever.”

Dylan laughed like I’d told the funniest joke ever.

“Please, my wife’s due date isn’t for weeks! You think I’ll fall for that?”

“Iris, you’re so desperate to meet your sugar daddy you’re using my wife as leverage?”

Then a twisted idea crossed his face.

“Fine. If you, Iris Bennett, publicly admit you’re a prostitute, I’ll move.”

He turned to the crowd again.

“Listen up! This woman’s nothing but a gold-digging whore!”

“Remember her face! If you’re dating, steer clear—she’ll drain your bank account!”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

People pulled out phones to record me.

I trembled with rage, chest heaving.

“Dylan, you say I’m selling myself, do you got any proof?”

“If not, that’s slander. I’ll call the cops right now and sue you for defamation.”