The morning sun pierced through the curtains, falling furiously across my face as though it were trying to shake me awake—shake me into the harsh reality I had been avoiding.

I groaned softly, my body aching from head to toe. The weariness of pregnancy clung to me like chains, and the late night of cleaning up the guest room hadn’t helped. Every muscle throbbed with exhaustion, but it wasn’t just my body that felt sore—my heart did too.

Vincent.

I thought of him immediately. Vincent and Lilian, in the same room, under the same roof, on the same bed that used to be mine. He had been drunk, yes. I knew that. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept that another woman—my stepsister—had slept in our room with him.

The sting of betrayal cut deeper than any physical pain.

My chest tightened, bitterness washing over me. I could still see it clearly in my mind: Lilian’s smug little smile as she guided Vincent inside last night. And the worst part? He didn’t stop her. He never stopped her.

I scrambled out of bed, my stomach lurching. Running to the bathroom, I leaned over the sink and threw up again. My throat burned, my hands clutching the porcelain for support. After rinsing my mouth, I caught sight of my pale reflection in the mirror. My skin looked almost translucent, my lips cracked, my eyes heavy with fatigue.

“Gosh,” I muttered, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I forgot my vitamins.”

I sighed and leaned against the wall, my eyes landing on the guest room around me. The dull space mocked me—reminding me of the bitter truth. This wasn’t my room. This wasn’t my place. Another woman, Lilian, occupied it now.

And the cruelest part of all? From the outside looking in, it seemed like I was the “other woman.”

Lilian was his first love, his moonlight. I was nothing but a pawn—a helpless replacement in a game I never asked to play.

The thought gnawed at me, hollowing me out.

Trying to distract myself, I pulled out my phone and searched frantically: "When does a baby bump start to show in early pregnancy?"

Different articles gave different answers—some said twelve weeks, others mentioned later. Nothing concrete. Nothing to give me certainty. My frustration boiled, but I forced myself to close the screen. I’d just have to ask my doctor when I went for antenatal care.

Brushing off the thoughts, I decided to leave the room. The scent of breakfast drifted through the hallways, and my stomach growled in response.

But just as I turned the corner, I froze.

Lilian emerged from our room—no, from Vincent’s room—wearing a revealing nightgown. My heart clenched. That wasn’t what she had worn last night. The silk clung to her curves, the neckline dipping far too low.

And then… Vincent appeared behind her.

His hair was disheveled, his shirt loose, his expression unreadable.

My breath caught in my throat.

The sight was damning. Lilian beamed, brushing her hair coyly as if she belonged there, as if it were natural. And Vincent… though he didn’t return her affection, he didn’t push her away either.

I swallowed the pain down, tightening my chest. My heart screamed, but I masked it with a blank face, brushing past them steadily, refusing to let them see the storm raging inside me.

“Oh, sister, you’re up already!” Lilian’s voice rang out, sweet yet poisonous. “How was your night alone? I mean… in the guest room?” Her smirk widened, her words stabbing at me.

I stopped. Turning slightly, I gave her a smile sharp enough to cut.

“At least I slept with both my eyes closed,” I taunted, my tone calm and scathing. “Unlike some people, who spend the night clinging to a married man.”

Her smile froze. Her face contorted, fury flickering across her features before she quickly hid it.

Satisfied, I walked away.

The dining room spread out before me—lavish, as always, with dishes laid out in extravagant detail. But the emptiness of the long table pressed on me. The seats felt colder without Grandpa.

“Where’s Grandpa?” I asked the head butler quietly.

“The Old Patriarch doesn’t usually have breakfast here,” he replied politely.

“I see.” I nodded and took my seat, forcing myself to eat, though my appetite was gone.

But my mood soured instantly when the “two” arrived.

Lilian swept into the room, all sweetness and play-acting, her voice lilting with false innocence. “I heard Grandpa hired the most renowned chef?” she asked, her tone dripping sugar.

“Yes,” Vincent replied shortly, not even looking at her. His voice was deep, curt. His face looked tired, his hair still slightly messy.

“I can’t wait to taste.” Lilian clasped her hands together, tilting her head toward him with calculated sweetness. “Just thinking of *last night* makes me even hungrier.”

My grip on the fork tightened, the metal bending faintly under the strain.

"Last night."

She was doing this deliberately—taunting me, twisting the knife. My blood boiled.

But then Vincent finally lifted his gaze. “But you only slept in the bed.”

Lilian froze, her expression flickering with shock. She stammered, her smile faltering.

I blinked, stunned. So… nothing happened? Lilian had been exaggerating—acting.

A shaky laugh escaped her lips. “Hehe… of course, I was just joking.”

Before she could cover her tracks further, Grandpa’s wheelchair rolled in. I rushed over immediately, helping him inside with care.

The room quieted, tension lingering in the air.

But then, unexpectedly, Vincent’s secretary arrived. My brows furrowed—he rarely came to the Markston mansion unless something was seriously wrong at the company.

Grandpa’s sharp gaze fell on both Vincent and me. His voice was stern, authoritative.

“You two…” He pointed his finger at us. “You don’t act like married couples at all.”

I froze, my smile awkward, my pulse racing. “What do you mean, Grandpa?” I asked softly.

He grunted, unimpressed.

Vincent suddenly stood. The movement was deliberate, commanding. He walked over to me, and before I could react, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against my cheek.

I stiffened, every muscle in my body locking in shock.

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said calmly, his eyes lingering on mine, “for what happened last night.”

Grandpa erupted into hearty laughter. “Hahaha! This is the first time I’ve seen the almighty Vincent Markston apologize to a woman!”

My head spun, my hands clutched tightly under the table to stop the trembling. "He’s doing this again," I thought desperately. "I can’t… I can’t still have feelings for him."

But my heart betrayed me, beating wildly in my chest.

Lilian stood abruptly, excusing herself with a tight smile before leaving.

Vincent moved as if to follow, but my hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his wrist.

“You didn’t eat anything,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “At least have something before leaving.”

His eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, something unspoken passed between us—anticipation, hope. Then he sighed. “I can’t eat.”

Only then did I notice his bandaged hand. My heart lurched. “Vincent, how… how did you get this wound?”

A hint of mischief gleamed in his eyes. He leaned closer, his voice dropping low. “Why don’t you feed me?”

I froze. My breath hitched. Feed him? For two years of marriage, he had never once eaten the meals I cooked. Now he wanted me to feed him?

“Grandpa is watching,” he whispered, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.

My jaw clenched. This man knew exactly how to corner me.

With a reluctant sigh, I lifted the spoon and carefully fed him. His lips brushed the utensil, his gaze never leaving mine. My face heated against my will.

Grandpa chuckled, shaking his head. “Enough of this dog food. I’m full already,” he muttered as he excused himself, clearly pleased.

As soon as he left, I stood quickly, intending to retreat. But Vincent’s hand caught me once more, yanking me into his arms.

“Ahhh!” I cried out, my body colliding against his chest. “What are you doing?”

His gaze burned into mine, unyielding. “What do you think?”

I scrambled out of his hold, glaring. “Don’t act so pathetic—it’s disgusting.”

His face darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You really don’t know what’s good for you, do you?” he asked coldly, staring into me as though trying to read my soul.

I raised my chin, defiant. “The only thing I know is that we are partners—bound by a contract. Nothing more.”

He chuckled, low and humorless. “A contract, huh? I almost forgot.”

My heart skipped. "What does he mean?"

“I’ll always keep that in mind,” he said darkly, standing to leave.

I sat back down, trembling slightly. My chest felt hollow, as if something precious had slipped through my fingers.

And yet… I couldn’t understand why it hurt so much.