The morning sun felt too bright, an intrusive glare against the cold marble of the breakfast nook. Seraphina sat perfectly still, her hands wrapped around a cup of warm ginger tea. The nausea was a constant companion now—a thick, rolling tide that rose with the smell of the heavy breakfast meats the chef used to prepare for Alexander.
For the first time, she had sent a polite note to the kitchen requesting the menu be changed. No more bacon. No more strong coffee. She wasn't doing it for herself; she was doing it so she wouldn't collapse again.
When she heard Alexander's heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoing down the hallway, her heart gave a familiar, painful thud. But she didn't look up. She didn't smooth her hair or check her reflection in the silverware like she used to.
She just stared at the steam rising from her tea.
Alexander entered, the scent of fresh rain and expensive wool clinging to him. He stopped at the head of the table, his eyes immediately landing on her. He expected tears. He expected the "timid mouse" to be trembling, perhaps begging him to take back the words he had murmured the night before.
"You're up," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"Good morning, Mr. Thorne," she replied. Her voice was flat, devoid of the soft, nervous tremor he was used to. It was the voice of a perfect employee.
Alexander's eyes narrowed. The "Mr. Thorne" stung in a way he hadn't expected. "The doctor said you need bed rest."
"I am fine," she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes, once full of a desperate hope when they danced at the gala, were now as opaque as frosted glass. "I have reviewed the vitamins the doctor prescribed. I will ensure the Thorne heir receives the proper nutrition. You needn't worry about the 'asset' failing."
Alexander flinched, a microscopic tightening of his jaw. He pulled out his chair, the screech of wood against marble sounding like a scream in the quiet room. "I told you last night, Seraphina. I don't care about the—"
"I heard you the first time," she interrupted softly, her fingers tightening around her tea. "You don't care about the pregnancy. You don't care about the child. You made that very clear."
She felt a sharp, sudden cramp in her lower abdomen, followed by a wave of dizziness that made her vision blur. She pressed her hand against the table to steady herself, her knuckles turning white.
Alexander was on his feet instantly, his hand reaching out to her shoulder. "Seraphina?"
She flinched away from his touch as if his skin were made of fire. The rejection was physical, and it left Alexander's hand hanging in empty air.
"Don't," she whispered, her face pale as ash. "There is no need for 'romance' when there is no audience, remember? The contract doesn't require you to touch me unless it's for public display."
He looked at his empty hand, then at her. The rage from the night before was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering frustration. He didn't know how to handle this version of her. He preferred her timid. He preferred her seeking his gaze. This silent, robotic woman was a stranger.
"I've increased the security at the gates," he said, his voice turning cold to mask his unease. "And I've hired a private nurse. She will be here at noon. You are not to leave the grounds without my express permission."
"Of course," she said, standing up slowly, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The morning sickness was clawing at her throat again. "I am a prisoner here anyway. A few more locks won't make a difference."
She turned to leave, but as she passed him, the smell of his cologne—the same scent he wore the night of the Gala—hit her. A memory flashed in her mind: his hand on her back, his voice whispering that she looked beautiful.
A tear threatened to fall, but she blinked it back. That man didn't exist. He was a ghost created by her own wishful thinking.
"Seraphina," he called out as she reached the door.
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"The gala..." He paused, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. "That was for the company."
"I know," she lied, her heart breaking all over again. "I knew it even then."
She walked out, leaving him standing in the center of the vast, empty room. Alexander watched her go, his chest tightening with a feeling he refused to name. He had his "Paper Wife" under control. He had his heir secured.
So why did it feel like he was the one who had just lost everything?