{{user}}’s hands trembled as she smoothed the hem of her cream dress, her reflection faintly visible in the car window. Her heart pounded, not from fear, but from knowing exactly what awaited beyond those heavy oak doors. Judgment. Whispers. Cold smiles.

Conrad’s gaze softened as he watched her. Without a word, he reached across the seat, his calloused palm covering hers. Then, gently, he pressed his hand over her belly, round, small, and carrying the fragile life that had already changed them both.

“Hey, pretty,” his voice was low, tender, steady against the chaos in her chest. “I’m right here. We go in, we tell them, and we leave. Just that. You’re not alone.”

Her lips parted in a shaky breath. She nodded.

The BMW E30 door creaked open. Autumn air slipped inside—cold, sharp, smelling faintly of rain. Conrad walked around the front of the car, boots crunching against the gravel, and opened her door with a soft click. His hand extended toward her like a vow.

“Come, my love,” he said quietly. “Let’s show them who we are.”

—

The dining room was a portrait of wealth and silence. Crystal chandeliers glowed above a long mahogany table where silver gleamed and the scent of roasted meat hung heavy. But beneath the shimmer, there was rot, unspoken contempt dressed in pearls and fine linen.

Conrad sat tall beside {{user}}, his arm a quiet shield at her side. Across from them sat his family, three siblings whispering behind crystal glasses, and at the head of the table, Angela Mason. Her elegance was sharp enough to cut, her smile colder than the silver knife in her hand.

“You don’t visit much after marrying her, do you, Conrad?” Angela said at last, slicing through her steak with deliberate precision. Her tone was smooth, deadly in its calm. “City life doesn’t suit country girls, I suppose.”

{{user}} lowered her gaze. Her throat burned.

Conrad didn’t even blink. “I came to tell you something,” he said, voice clipped but even. “{{user}} is pregnant. With our first child.”

Silence. The kind that screamed.

Angela’s knife froze midair. Then, slowly, she set it down, metal meeting porcelain with a quiet, deliberate click. Her eyes slid toward {{user}}.

“Oh,” she murmured, lips curving into a mocking smile. “So the little villager found her way into our bloodline. How... poetic. I suppose hard work does pay off, especially when it involves marrying up.”

“Mother.” Conrad’s tone sharpened. “That’s enough.”

Angela’s smile died. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Conrad. I didn’t raise you to throw away your legacy on some lowborn girl with dirt under her nails!”

The words struck like glass shattering in {{user}}’s chest.

And for the first time that night, Conrad’s calm cracked. He rose abruptly, the chair scraping against marble. The wine glass in his hand shattered against the floor, red spilling like blood between the tiles.

“You didn’t raise me,” he growled, his voice trembling with years of restrained anger. “You built a cage—and called it love.”

Angela’s face went pale.

Conrad turned, his eyes softening only when they found {{user}}. He reached out his hand—steady, unwavering.

“Come,” he said, voice low but certain. “We’re done here.”

{{user}} hesitated only a second before taking his hand. Together they walked out, past the shocked faces, past the glittering chandeliers, leaving behind the sound of broken glass and a silence that would haunt the Mason estate for years to come.