“The doctor said she’s not pregnant! She’s not pregnant!”
Christopher’s furious voice snapped me awake.
“I was just guessing, and you—without even confirming—blew everything out of proportion! Do you have any idea how much the production has lost from stopping filming these past few days? If the crew decides to call the police, what do you think that’ll do to your future?”
It was the first time I’d ever seen Christopher lose control.
To the outside world, Christopher is a perfect gentleman—warm, composed, gentle as jade, just like his name implies. In all the time we’d known each other, we’d never truly quarreled.
Even back when the tabloids exposed photos of him sending a drunk Maurice to a hotel, causing rumors to erupt and netizens to dig into her background, Christopher never raised his voice. His face went red from stress, but his tone remained soft as he calmly negotiated the terms of our contract marriage with me—a fellow industry insider who had happened to be in the same hotel at the time.
Back then, I was still a struggling actress, my career in chaos after Ismael’s betrayal. The proposal had felt like a lifeline. I needed someone—anyone—to help me feel less alone.
I shifted slightly on the hospital bed. Christopher noticed and ended the call immediately.
“I didn’t fracture anything, did I?” My voice was hoarse. I’d been counting down the days left of my filming schedule. Any delay would be a disaster.
“No, you’re lucky,” he said gently. “Just bruises and some scratches. You’ll need a couple days of rest.”
He hesitated, then added, “Maurice went too far this time. I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want—as an apology.”
To my own surprise, I stayed calm. “Alright.”
His eyes lit up. “You’re really not angry at Maurice? She knows she was wrong this time, I promise. I’ll talk to her—”
“There’s no need.” I cut him off, my tone steady.
“I get it. If Ismael were still alive, I would’ve defended him blindly too. So let’s just drop it. But do me a favor—tell her I won’t be getting pregnant. She can stop worrying.”
He blinked at me, startled. “Why not?”
I stared at him. “Why do you think? I’ve been taking birth control. I’m not going to have a child for someone who isn’t Ismael.”
He froze. “You’ve… been taking pills? Shelley, the man is gone. Can’t you stop living in the past? Can’t you even look at me?”
His voice trembled—sharp, unlike the calm mask he always wore. It was the first time I saw the cracks in it.
“You have obligations as a wife,” he muttered, grabbing for something—anything—to hold onto. “It’s in the contract.”
“What obligation?” I asked flatly. “The contract’s already—”
Before I could finish, his phone rang again.
“Brother! I found birth control pills in Shelley’s drawer!”
It was Maurice’s voice, shrill and smug. “She doesn’t want your baby! She’s in love with someone else!”
Christopher looked at me, visibly awkward, then silently left the ward to take the call.
I watched him go, more tired than angry.
That afternoon, rumors exploded online—accusations that I was cheating on Christopher. Though the claims were dressed up with fake timelines and twisted facts, there was no real evidence. Just slander. Just malice.
The tone was too familiar, too targeted. I didn’t need to guess who was behind it.
Maurice. Of course it was her. So impatient, so desperate to humiliate me, she couldn’t even wait another day.
What I still didn’t understand was why Christopher loved her.
Later that evening, he called, flustered and breathless.
“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it, I promise. It won’t affect you—I swear. Maurice… she’s just been spoiled by me.”
Three years.
In three years, the sentence I heard from him the most was: “I’m sorry.”
And every time, it was because of Maurice.
I used to see him as a kind of medicine—something to soothe the pain Ismael left behind. I used to think these were minor storms I had to weather for the paycheck and the peace.
But not anymore. I was done.
Whatever this was—this contract, this facade—it was already over.
