"Isabella is old enough to be your mother and you still shamelessly became her boy toy? Pathetic."
Adeline's voice was razor-sharp, her eyes drilling through me like I was something she'd stepped in.
My chest tightened. The pain from my father's death never really faded—it just hid better some days. But her words cracked something wide open. My breath hitched, rage rising fast. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasted blood and forced it down.
That man—my father—was the kind who stood straight even when the world tried to bend him. He hated mistresses, never touched a drop of scandal. Even in death, he clung to dignity like armor. And now? They all spat on his name. Called him a failure. Said he raised a disgrace.
Maybe they were right.
I exhaled slowly and forced a crooked smile to my face.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm pathetic. Otherwise, why would I have believed your bullshit and been your secret lover for three years?"
The words hit heavier than expected. Her eyes flickered, something like guilt flashing across her face. But before she could speak, my legs gave out.
A wave of heat crashed over me as the room spun. My vision blurred. I staggered, clutching the wall for balance.
Her hand shot out instinctively, grabbing my arm. Her eyes widened the second she touched me.
"You're burning up," she muttered, her tone shifting.
I tore myself free, my body trembling from the effort. "None of your business," I spat, voice hoarse and raw.
She didn't back off. If anything, her grip tightened. "You're going to the hospital."
I tried to pull away, but she held on, unrelenting. Her perfume filled the air—once comforting, now nauseating.
"Let go!" I snapped. "Isabella's still waiting. I don't have time for your games."
Adeline's expression darkened, but before she could reply, the bathroom door creaked open.
"Well, well," came a slurred voice laced with venom. "Ms. Penna really is interested in my little boy toy."
Isabella leaned against the doorframe, eyes flicking over us with wicked amusement. She walked in slowly, owning the room like a queen surveying her court.
Adeline didn't flinch. "He has a fever," she said flatly.
Isabella's lips curled. "Since when is my man your concern?"
She wrapped herself around me, purring into my ear, "Come on. Let's go back and keep drinking."
Her touch felt like poison, but I nodded faintly. Pain and fatigue flooded every inch of me, but I'd learned how to perform. How to pretend.
Then Adeline said something I didn't expect.
"Isabella," she said, voice low and sharp, "humiliating the son of the man you once adored—is this your idea of love?"
The words hit like ice water.
Even through the fever haze, I registered what she'd said. Adeline—the woman who'd ruined my father, shattered my family—was now defending me?
Isabella's smirk vanished. Her expression turned to stone. "Ms. Penna, that's a low blow."
"He's burning up and you're still pouring drinks. Partying is one thing. But if he dies, it won't look good on you."
For a second, just one, I saw hesitation flicker in Isabella's eyes. She looked at me again and this time, her amusement faltered.
She masked it with a sneer. "Aw, Ms. Penna's grown a heart? Funny, you sure didn't have one when you dumped him five years ago."
Adeline didn't respond. She grabbed my arm and started dragging me out. I barely resisted. I didn't have the strength.
Behind us, Isabella cursed, voice sharp and shrill, but Adeline never looked back.
She shoved me into the back seat of her car. The leather burned against my fevered skin. I leaned my head on the cool window, eyelids drooping.
Then Isabella climbed into the front passenger seat without warning, her voice laced with challenge.
"Ms. Penna, where exactly do you plan on taking my man?"
Adeline didn't miss a beat. "If he ends up brain-damaged from the fever, your fun will be over."
Isabella scoffed but didn't argue. Maybe she saw I wasn't faking it.
The car sped off into the night. Silence stretched between them.
Then, quietly, Adeline said, "Where's our child buried? I want to visit him."
Her words sliced through me like a blade.
My fists clenched. Nails dug into my palms.
She didn't know. She thought the baby had died.
Five years ago, after her betrayal, she'd forced herself to give birth prematurely. A son. She hadn't even looked at him—just handed him over like trash.
And walked away. She never asked, never cared.
Later, she destroyed what was left of my life. I lost everything. So I left—with that child in my arms.
That boy, born with a failing heart, was the only reason I kept breathing.
Everyone assumed he'd died. And I let them. Because the last thing I wanted... was for her to find him.
"There's no need," I said coldly. "A child like him doesn't deserve a mother like you."
