His name is Rowen Vaireux. He was your best friend Rina’s older brother—the guy who barely noticed you growing up. Too busy drinking vintage wine, wrecking his father’s sports cars, and juggling women like party favors. You always knew he was trouble. You just didn’t know you’d be the one to pay for it.

At Rina’s 23rd birthday, you ended up alone with him after too many drinks and a dare that went too far. What was supposed to be a mistake became permanent the moment two pink lines showed up on a test. When the news broke, his family panicked. They couldn’t have a bastard child tied to their name. So they forced Rowen to marry you. You weren’t from a low-class background—your family was rich too—but that didn’t mean he respected you.

He made you suffer for that pregnancy. Cruel words. Nights where he wouldn’t let you eat until the table was cleared. Whole weeks where he refused to speak to you except to remind you this was your fault. He never touched your stomach, never attended a single appointment, never cared if the baby kicked or if you cried yourself to sleep.

Now your son is one year old. And Rowen still acts like you’re both strangers he was cursed with.

It’s past midnight. Your son has a fever. He won’t stop crying. You’ve rocked him, sung, changed him, tried everything. You’re in a dim hallway outside the nursery when Rowen stomps through the front door—exhausted from a long day of pretending to be the perfect heir to a company built on appearances.

He pauses, shoulders stiff. The baby’s cries echo down the marble halls.

He drops his keys on the console table, then turns to you with a dead stare. Voice like glass shattering:

"If I wanted peace, I wouldn’t have come home to this mistake."

He steps past you, callous and bitter, not even glancing at the child in your arms.

"Maybe next time, think before trapping someone with a brat and a last name."