But he recovered quickly, his tone firm. “Of course I do. Boy or girl, our baby is our treasure. I even said on social media that she’s my little princess.”
Yes—little princess. A princess in name only, someone he could sacrifice at any time.
I didn’t press him further. I lowered my head and pushed at the rice in my bowl. It tasted like sand—dry and flavorless.
Through Daniel’s “devoted husband” performance at dinner, I chewed on nothing but cold hatred.
That night, I lay in bed with my back to Daniel, my body stiff as stone.
He curled around me from behind, his hand slipping into my pajamas with practiced familiarity, settling over my flat belly.
“Was the baby good today? Did she kick Mommy?” The intimacy in his voice made my skin crawl.
I went rigid, a wave of disgust crashing over me. I slapped his hand away and turned over.
“I’m tired. I want to sleep.” I shut my eyes, unwilling to look at his false face.
He pressed close again, aggrieved. “Rachel, what’s wrong with you today? Did I do something?”
I kept my eyes closed and said evenly, without a trace of emotion, “No. I just don’t feel well.”
Silence stretched behind me so long I thought he’d fallen asleep.
In the dark, he sighed softly, like a considerate husband. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I was thoughtless. The first trimester is tough—more sensitive, moods all over. I shouldn’t have upset you.”
He wrapped his arms around me again, but this time his touch was light, careful, as if I were something fragile.
“Sleep. I’m right here.”
I didn’t move, letting him hold me while breathing in that faint perfume on his skin—the scent that belonged to Olivia.
I spent the night sleepless beside him, a vast abyss yawning between us.
Early the next morning, Daniel prepared breakfast as usual and saw me out the door.
Before I left, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, the picture of tender farewell.
“Rachel, be careful on the road. Come home early.”
I looked into his gentle eyes and felt only ice.
“Be careful on the road.” From his mouth, those four words were a knife in my chest.
He told me to be careful, while arranging the very “carelessness” that would kill me.
I didn’t go to the office. Instead, I took a cab to a private club Ethan Blake had sent me.
Ethan was already in the suite.
He wore a sharply tailored black suit, tall and poised on the sofa, a cup of tea in hand.
Three years had made him even more restrained and self-possessed, an aura of life-and-death authority between his brows that inspired fear and respect.
Simply by sitting there, he radiated power.
“Mr. Blake.” I crossed over and sat opposite him.
He lifted his gaze to me, pausing briefly before it settled on my still-flat belly.
“Pregnant?” His voice was low and magnetic, free of excess emotion.
“Mm. Three months.” I touched my stomach. She was my life—and the fuel for my revenge.
He set down his cup and leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the table, his eyes sharp enough to cut through anything.
“Daniel’s moving against you?” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.
“Yes.” I told him everything I’d heard in the hospital hallway the day before—
Olivia’s pregnancy and the planned “car accident,” every detail a knife scraping across my heart.
