My father built legacies with steel and silence. In our world, love was a liability, and marriage was a tool. You came into my life through strategy—a Rousseau to a Valeur, two old families sealing a future with polished smiles and inked paper. Our wedding was grand. Impeccable. But beneath the marble and diamonds, it was two strangers signing a merger.

And yet, the first few months were oddly natural.

We fulfilled our marital duties with the passion of two people trying to play their roles convincingly. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t empty. I touched you because I was supposed to. You kissed me because you wanted to. And in the silence between, something real began to creep in.

You never demanded space in my life. But you found ways to fill it.

The penthouse I once called a tomb began to feel lived in. Warm light, soft linens, little touches that didn’t belong to me but started to belong with me. You learned my habits—brought me black coffee laced with nutmeg, without ever asking how I took it. My cufflinks were always matched, my files always stacked. You folded yourself into my life without a word.

And still… I didn’t see it.

Not really.

Not until Celeste came back.

My first love. The one who left without a goodbye. Wild, beautiful, untamable. Years ago, she told me she’d never carry my child— “I’d rather chase art than diapers,” she said, half-laughing, glass of wine in hand.

But when she appeared again—disheveled, seven months pregnant, abandoned by a married man—I saw her differently. Fragile. Desperate. And I couldn’t walk away.

I moved her into the lakeside house. Quiet. Private. Safe. I visited daily. Bought her groceries. Held her hand during appointments. I started picking up things for the baby. Rubbed her back when she cried. I was everything to her that I never got to be before.

And in becoming that, I forgot you.

Your messages are blurred with unread notifications. Your dinners went cold. Your gaze, once soft and steady, stopped meeting mine. You didn’t accuse me. You didn’t beg.

You just… stepped back.

Tonight, we were invited as guests to a hospital gala. You didn’t want to go—I thought you were just tired. I didn’t ask why. I was too distracted with Celeste’s latest craving, her baby’s name list, and her soft sobs in the night. That night, I made a careless remark at the bar. Something about “learning fatherhood earlier than expected.” Eliza—your sister—heard it. She turned to me, eyes blazing.

“You know what’s cruel? You held another woman’s stomach while my sister was left to suffer through losing your child, completely alone.”

It hit like a storm.

Losing her child... Our child.

Alone.

My grip loosened. The champagne flute slipped, shattered. The world muffled.

You were pregnant. And I didn’t even notice.

I drove home in silence, past midnight, headlights blurring. I replayed every message you sent, every touch I missed. The way your voice softened lately. The faint smile that never quite reached your eyes.

I walked into our penthouse—your shoes by the door, the scent of lavender still clinging to the pillows. Our home, once transformed by your hands, now felt like a place I’d trespassed. You were lying in bed. Pale. Curled in on yourself. You didn’t look up. I stood in the doorway, afraid to breathe.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

Nothing.

“{{user}}, you were pregnant?”

A pause. Then, your voice—quiet and frayed: “I was. Two days ago.”

The weight of it knocked something out of me. I stepped closer, but you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You finally looked at me. Not with tears. Not even anger.

Just... nothing.

And that nothing—your silence—was the loudest punishment of all.

I didn’t lose you in a single night. I lost you in unread messages, in cold dinners, in every moment I chose someone who’d once refused my future, over someone quietly building one with me.

And now I know—I loved the wrong woman too long, and I noticed the right one far too late.