Several weeks had passed since the Thorne Foundation Gala, and the glitz of that night had settled into a quiet, monotonous routine. To the outside world, they were the city's most enigmatic power couple. Inside the mansion, they were two strangers living by a ledger.
Their "normal life" was a series of silent breakfasts and scheduled encounters. Alexander remained the cold, efficient CEO, and Seraphina remained the timid "Paper Wife." The only time the contract felt like more than ink on a page was at night. Even without "love," the physical side of their agreement continued—intense, silent, and possessive. In those moments, when Alexander's grip tightened on her, Seraphina almost allowed herself to believe the Gala hadn't been an illusion.
But the mornings always brought the ice back.
One Tuesday, Seraphina woke up feeling particularly drained. A persistent chill had settled in her chest, and her stomach felt like it was constantly swaying on a boat. I must have caught a cold from the draft in this old house, she thought, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead.
To keep her mind off the growing nausea, she decided to tidy the Master Suite. Even with a house full of staff, the "timid mouse" felt safer when she was busy. She began dusting the heavy obsidian dresser, her fingers moving over the dark wood until they brushed a small, hidden latch near the floorboards.
A shallow drawer clicked open.
Inside, tucked away from the light, was a single, yellowed envelope and a shattered glass ornament. Seraphina's hand trembled as she opened the letter. The handwriting was elegant but hurried, the words cutting like glass:
"He has your eyes, and I can't look at them anymore. He's just a reminder of the prison you built for me. Keep him. I'm leaving to find the love you could never give. I hope he grows up to be less like you, but I doubt it."
It was a goodbye note from his mother. It wasn't just a departure; it was a total rejection of the boy Alexander had been. Seraphina felt a crushing weight in her chest. She finally understood. He treated her like a transaction because he was terrified that if he treated her like a woman, she would discard him just as easily as his mother had.
"Who gave you permission to touch that?"
The voice was a low, terrifying snarl. Alexander stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the hallway light. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Alexander... I was just cleaning, I didn't mean to—"
He was across the room in a flash, snatching the letter so violently that the paper crinkled in his fist. His eyes were dark with a raw, jagged rage she hadn't seen since their first night. "Did a few weeks of peace make you forget your place? Did you think you were special enough to go digging through my trash?"
"No! I just felt sorry for you—"
"I don't want your pity!" he hissed, pinning her against the dresser. His grip on her arms was like iron. "You are a transaction, Seraphina. You are a 'Paper Wife' I bought to keep the elders off my back. Don't mistake the nights we spend together for anything more than the fulfillment of a contract."
The sting in her heart was sharper than any physical blow. The small hope she had been nursing since the gala was crushed. "I know my place," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry."
The stress and the pain combined with the nausea she'd been fighting all morning. The room began to spin. The scent of his sandalwood cologne, once a comfort, now made her stomach heave.
"Alexander, I—" She gasped, her face turning ashen. She slumped forward, her knees giving out.
The Diagnosis
When Seraphina opened her eyes, she was in the massive bed. The family doctor was packing her bag, looking between the two of them with a grave expression. Alexander was standing by the window, his back to the room, looking like a statue of ice.
"She's awake," the doctor noted.
Alexander turned, his face a mask of stony indifference. "Is she finished with her 'fever'?"
"Mr. Thorne," the doctor said seriously. "It isn't a cold. Your wife is six weeks pregnant."
The silence that followed was absolute. Seraphina's hand flew to her stomach, her heart hammering. A baby. From that first night...
She looked at Alexander, desperate for a spark of something—anything. But Alexander remained frozen. His face went from shock to a cold, hard mask. He didn't move toward her. He didn't touch her.
He turned his gaze back to the window, his voice barely a murmur, a cold breath that he likely thought she couldn't hear, but the room was too quiet.
"I don't care about the pregnancy."
The words hit Seraphina harder than a slap. It was the ultimate rejection.
He finally looked at her, his eyes like glass. "The doctor will leave instructions. Follow them. Your grandmother's bills will still be paid."
"Alexander..." she whispered, her voice thick with tears.
"Don't," he cut her off. "I told you. No romance. No love. A child doesn't change the terms of the contract. You are a Thorne by name only."
He walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Seraphina lay there alone, clutching her stomach as the first real tears of her marriage began to fall.