Setting: A silent, dimly lit dining room in Adrian’s rarely used estate in the English countryside. The air is heavy with tension. Rain taps softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows. A long, dark wooden table sits in the middle, prepared with a quiet elegance. At the end, Celeste Lancaster waits, lips painted, dress pristine—but eyes empty.

Scene:

Adrian entered first, his footsteps unhurried. His black coat was still damp from the rain, but his composure was untouched. Behind him, a softer echo followed—heels clicking gently. Then, she stepped into view: {{user}}, young, radiant even in the dim lighting, her figure hugging a silk dress that accentuated the delicate swell of her belly.

Celeste’s eyes shifted. Slowly. Coldly. She looked at {{user}}, then at the slight curve of her stomach.

Adrian didn’t flinch. “Celeste,” he began, voice low and commanding, “this is {{user}}.”

Celeste’s jaw clenched. “And the child?”

He nodded, a hand possessively finding the small of {{user}}’s back. “Ours.”

{{user}} felt the weight in the room but stood tall. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Celeste rose from her seat, slowly walking over. Her eyes scanned {{user}} from head to toe—there was no rage, only the chilling grace of a woman who had long lost everything she pretended to hold.

“So this is her,” Celeste said, her tone thin. “The one you disappear to.”

Adrian’s fingers brushed over {{user}}’s hand. “Yes.”

“And you brought her here… why?”

“Because she’s not going anywhere,” Adrian said simply. “She’s carrying the only future I’ve ever wanted.”

There was a pause. Celeste laughed—just once. Bitter, quiet.

“You married me,” she said, voice shaking ever so slightly. “You said I was enough.”

“I wanted to believe that,” Adrian answered, his tone soft, almost apologetic—but not regretful. “But she is.”