Deciding to guard this secret alone was only the first step in the war. What followed—the early symptoms of pregnancy—became constant reminders, dragging into the open, again and again, the truth I tried to bury.
Morning retching was the first hurdle. I had to rush into the bathroom before she woke, or after she left, suppressing the storm of nausea in my throat. The water had to run loud enough to drown out every undignified sound. When I emerged, my face had to be calm, betraying not the slightest crack.
I grew hypersensitive to smells. Scents I once tolerated now became triggers for vomiting. Once, the housekeeper fried fish; the moment the odor drifted in, my stomach churned violently. I excused myself with "work" and locked myself in the study until the wave passed.
I lied about hypoglycemia, secretly taking prenatal vitamins. That small bottle became my greatest secret, my symbol of shame. Each pill was a silent chewing of the sordid past and the absurd present.
The disguise consumed immense energy. Physical exhaustion and mental strain intertwined like a string pulled taut to breaking. I looked at her—the culprit—still living in her world, perhaps tinged with guilt, perhaps with irritation, but utterly incapable of grasping my reality. A coldness, mixed with hatred and loneliness, seeped deeper into my bones.
I could feel her probing gaze. She wasn't a fool. My frequent "discomfort," my avoidance of smells, the fatigue I couldn't fully hide—all stirred her suspicion.
The first time she hesitantly asked, "Are you unwell?" I almost heard my heart stop. I wielded the cold shields of "I'm fine" and "low blood sugar," blocking every attempt she made to reach me.
I saw disbelief in her eyes, but she didn't press. That silence became a duel. She observed, guessed; I defended, endured.
When she returned late at night, carrying the scent of unfamiliar Omegas, trying to provoke me with childish tricks, I felt the sting of violated territory, the cold mockery—and, absurdly, a flicker of relief. See, Emma. You are still the one who knows nothing of responsibility. You don't even have the right to ask about me.
That twisted thought became one of the forces sustaining my disguise. I had to be colder, harder, to protect myself—and the fragile hope inside me that should not exist.
Through countless nights of nausea and palpitations, curled alone on a cold bed, feeling the faint presence within me, hatred and fear drowned me like tides. Yet strangely, in that frozen darkness, there were moments—so faint I tried to deny them—of warmth.
My hand would instinctively cover my abdomen, as if that could shield against all malice. There was a heartbeat, syncing with mine. A pure, biological bond, untouched by love or hate.
Sometimes, in exhaustion and haze, I forgot how this child came to be. Simply sensing life growing inside me brought a primal calm, an Omega instinct satisfied. Like finding a fragile sprout breaking through barren ice. Weak, yet stubbornly alive.
That faint light could not melt the ice, but it gave me a reason—however small—to keep enduring.
So when she finally lost control, barging in with panic and a laughable sense of "responsibility," demanding the truth she had already guessed, my frozen wasteland of a heart grew strangely calm. At last, the moment had come.
I looked at her shock, her helplessness, her pale words—"That's my child!"—and felt only bitter irony.
With the coldest words, I laid bare the sordid past, that violent night, bleeding it before her. Each word was a knife, cutting her, slicing me. "This child is mine." My voice was iron, cruelly calm. "From beginning to end, he belongs only to me. You have nothing to do with him."
Not an outburst, but the boundary I forged through endless torment—the final fortress to protect myself and this child.
I pushed her out, listened to the familiar click of the lock. Leaning against the door, my body trembled with emotion and weakness.
My hand once more covered my abdomen. Child, do you see? This is your biological father. A man who, after harm, cannot shoulder even the most basic responsibility.
But it doesn't matter. From now on, you have me. That is enough. Your father will protect you, with everything.
Even if this world began in hatred and ruins, I will carve out, upon the wasteland, a small patch of soil—quiet, ours alone.
Beneath the ice, currents surge. Hatred is the frozen backdrop, but the will to protect, like a buried seed, grows quietly—twisted, yet steadfast.