His words hit the silence like water striking hot oil—an instant, violent reaction.
Even braced for his cruelty, the pain still pierced my chest.
"Nonsense!"
A thunderous roar cut through the room. Patrick Gilbert slammed his cane against the floor.
"Jesse Gilbert, is your brain addled with drink?"
One sentence, and he dismissed his grandson's cruelty as a drunkard's ramblings.
I didn't scream. Didn't demand justice. I simply lowered my eyes, withdrawing my gaze from the man who was supposed to be my husband.
The guests watched, whispering, until the banquet ended. That was when a ten-billion-dollar contract slid across the table.
"Today's incident is Jesse's fault," Patrick said, his voice gruff with guilt. "Treat this as compensation. Repayment for what the Gilbert family owes you from ten years ago."
Ten years ago.
The Gilbert family had been targeted by a corporate conspiracy, pushed to the brink of bankruptcy. I was the Matthews family's only daughter, an heiress, yet I chose to marry down—binding myself to Jesse Gilbert to save them.
But on our wedding night, I wasn't held in my husband's arms. I was kidnapped by his enemies.
For three days and nights, I disappeared. When I was returned, I was battered and broken, tossed onto the pavement of the city's busiest district like trash for the world to see.
I remembered how Jesse looked back then. He had knelt before me, slamming his forehead against the ground until blood ran down his face.
"I will avenge you," he swore. "I will wipe away this humiliation. My life is yours, Tessa. Everything I am belongs to you."
But promises are cheap. He couldn't die for me, and he certainly couldn't live for me.
After the incident, humiliating photos flooded the internet. At first, Jesse channeled his rage into business. He used the capital I provided to stage a miraculous comeback—reclaiming what the Gilberts had lost and surpassing it. He sent my captors to prison, scrubbed the photos from the web, and issued a gag order so strict that mentioning the kidnapping became social suicide.
But I don't know when the silence broke.
Rumors began circulating among the elite again. Some men even dared to joke in front of Jesse, asking if he enjoyed "wearing a second-hand shoe" or "damaged goods."
It was during that resurgence of malice that I discovered I was seven weeks pregnant.
I went to his study, eager to share the news, hoping this child would bridge the distance between us. But through the oak door, I heard his voice—cold and detached.
"Damaged goods or not, what business is it of yours?"
He didn't defend me. Didn't deny the slur. His tone only betrayed annoyance—not because they insulted his wife, but because they made him lose face.
That single sentence shattered me.
The stress was instantaneous. A cramp seized my abdomen, violent and absolute.
Later, the doctor shook his head. "Mrs. Gilbert, your uterus was severely damaged ten years ago. This pregnancy was a miracle. The emotional shock caused a sudden detachment... I'm afraid there will never be another chance."
I had seen the ultrasound. The fetus was tiny, no bigger than a peanut.
The child Jesse had waited ten years for was killed by his own indifference.
At that time, I still loved him. Loved him enough to drive myself into a nervous breakdown, terrified of one question: Did he still love me?
When my health collapsed, Jesse took me to the hospital. The attending physician was Joanna Fox.
The moment she saw him, her eyes widened in theatrical surprise.
"Jesse? Is that really you?"
Tears welled instantly. "I'm so sorry. I know my older brother committed those crimes. He's paid the price, but I still must apologize on his behalf."
I looked at Jesse, confused. The Fox family was responsible for my kidnapping. They were the reason for my nightmares.
But Jesse didn't recoil. He smiled—a warm, forgiving smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years.
"It's fine," he said softly. "That's all in the past. You were just a child ten years ago. You aren't responsible for Isaac's sins."
A cold dread settled in my stomach. Before I could speak, Jesse ushered me into the examination room.
The exam was clinical and cold. When I stepped out, I found Joanna speaking to Jesse, her brow furrowed in feigned concern.
"The endoscopic results are concerning," she said, her voice pitched perfectly—professional yet reluctant. "Your wife's uterine wall is dangerously thin. Extensive scarring consistent with frequent trauma. Judging by the damage... she must have had at least seven or eight abortions recently."
Jesse froze. The color drained from his face.
"Impossible," he whispered. "Every time... I used protection."
