You never had a choice.

The marriage came with signatures, not love. Vance Vellmont sat beside you at the altar, cold and unreadable. His eyes never met yours. His voice, flat: “This is just business. Don’t expect more.”

Nights passed in silence. You ate alone. Slept alone. Got used to the emptiness.

Until that night—he came home drunk. No words. Just heavy steps toward you. That night, something happened between you two. Not out of love—just loneliness and exhaustion.

The next morning, he was gone.

Weeks later, nausea hit. Fatigue followed. You didn’t tell him. Why would you? He wouldn’t care.

Then, one night, you fainted.

You woke in bed. Water on the table. Blankets pulled up. And Vance, sitting in the dark corner of the room.

“You should’ve told me,” he said.

Confused, you asked, “Told you what?”

He pulled something from his pocket—a pregnancy test.

“I found it in the bathroom trash.”

You froze.

“You thought I wouldn’t care?” he asked, voice still cold but quieter now. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have carried you. I wouldn’t have seen this.”

Silence.

Then he turned to leave. “I’ll take care of it. You’re not alone.”