CHAPTER 52
BRENDA'S POV
My chest rose and fell rapidly.
Heaving.
I was fucking furious. Pissed off.
How could he forbid me from going outside like I was some child? Like I belonged to him?
I slammed the door behind me so hard the sound echoed through the entire room, then stormed toward the bed. My hands found the nearest pillow and I buried my face into it, opening my mouth and screaming into it—raw, frustrated, muffled.
When I finally pulled away, my breathing was uneven. My body felt heavy…drained.
Silence settled in.
Slowly…everything began to sink in.
I knew Christian was rich—well off—but this?
This was something else entirely.
I sat up, my eyes roaming around the room with more awareness this time. The walls, the finishes, the detailing…everything screamed money. Not just money—old money, power, control. The kind of wealth that didn't need to prove itself but still did anyway.
Just the interior alone…this room…could cost a million. Maybe more.
And I hadn't even seen the outside.
The guards.
The way the house felt…secured, locked down like a fortress.
My head started to pound from overthinking. Too much, too fast. My thoughts tangled into each other until I couldn't tell where one ended and another began.
At some point—without even realizing when—sleep dragged me under.
A soft rustling pulled at the edges of my sleep.
At first, it blended into my dreams…then it grew clearer.
Voices.
Low.
Careful.
Soft laughter, like people trying not to wake someone up.
My eyelids felt heavy as I forced them open. It took a moment for my vision to settle…to understand what I was looking at.
Fabrics.
Everywhere.
Velvet. Silk. Chiffon. Satin. Draped, folded, hanging—spilling over chairs, the bed, even the floor like a sea of luxury.
My eyes shifted.
Four women. One man.
And Christian.
Standing there like he belonged in the middle of it all.
"She's awake!" the man announced, his voice bright, almost too cheerful.
Every single head turned toward me at once.
Christian's face softened instantly, a warm smile spreading across his lips like he'd been waiting for that moment.
I frowned.
I wasn't giving him that.
The man hurried over to me, taking my hands in his like we were long-lost friends.
"Sir Christian here called us to take your measurements and sew dresses for you ASAP!" he said excitedly.
I blinked at him…then nodded slowly.
"Yes!" he clapped lightly, clearly pleased. He grabbed a sketchbook from the nightstand and flipped it open, holding it out for me to see.
Designs.
Beautiful ones.
Elegant. Structured. Detailed down to the smallest stitch.
Too beautiful.
Too…proper.
Too not me.
"They're beautiful, really," I said, my fingers brushing over the pages. "But they're too formal. I was thinking more…simple. Something I can actually breathe in."
He paused—then his face lit up like I had just challenged him in the best way possible.
"I have just the idea!"
And just like that, they got to work.
Measuring tapes wrapped around my arms, my waist, my shoulders. Fabrics were held against my skin, pinned, adjusted, discussed in hushed excitement.
But through all of it…
I felt it.
His gaze.
I didn't need to look to know.
Christian was still there.
Watching me.
I kept my eyes everywhere else—on the fabrics, the floor, the sketches, the window…anywhere but him.
But then—
Like something pulling me against my will—
My eyes found his.
And everything else…faded.
For a few long, stretched-out seconds, it was just us.
No voices. No movement. No sound.
Just that look.
My vision blurred slightly as my eyes glazed over, emotions rising faster than I could contain them.
I broke it first.
Looked away.
Hard.
Just then, Eva walked in, holding an iPad.
"Since Miss Independent here refuses to stay locked up in royal gowns," she teased lightly, handing it to me, "you can order what you actually want."
I took it without a word and started scrolling.
Sweatpants. Loose shirts. Comfortable dresses.
Normal.
Things that felt like me.
Not whatever world Christian was trying to place me in.
CHRISTIAN'S POV
The next morning, I sat at the dining table, sipping my coffee.
Breakfast was laid out—everything normal people had in the morning…toast, eggs, fruits.
And then there was sourdough and sardines.
It was almost nine when she came down.
A beautiful, round woman wrapped in an oversized shirt and sweatpants. Her steps were slow, careful…like her body was heavier than she was used to. Her eyes wandered around the dining room, searching.
For Eva.
For Reginald.
For anyone but me.
Then finally…they landed on me.
I expected her to turn around. Walk away. Disappear back upstairs.
She didn't.
Instead, she walked straight to the table and sat down.
"Good morning," I said, after a stretch of silence that felt longer than it actually was.
She raised her eyes to me. "Morning."
Short. Distant.
But not cold enough to shut me out completely.
"How'd you sleep?" I asked, putting my phone down, giving her my full attention.
If she answered once…she could answer again.
"I slept okay," she said, pulling grapes onto her plate.
I slid the sourdough and sardines toward her.
"I thought you loved this combo."
"I do," she said casually, "just not today."
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world—
"I want green apples with table salt…spicy chicken wings and drumsticks. Plus balsamic vinegar."
I blinked.
"You aren't supposed to eat spicy food. It's not healthy."
Bad move.
She pouted. Actually pouted. Then pushed the grapes away like they had personally offended her.
She shifted in her seat.
Getting ready to leave.
"Okay—okay!" I stood up quickly.
I wasn't losing this moment.
Not this early.
I moved to the kitchen, pulling chicken out of the freezer, throwing it into the microwave to thaw. My movements were faster than usual…like I was trying to keep up with something I didn't understand.
I cut up four green apples, placed them neatly on a plate, added salt on the side.
I watched her dip the apple into salt.
Weird.
Then she bit into it.
The sound she made—
Soft. Satisfied. Almost sinful.
My body reacted before my brain could catch up.
Shit.
I turned away quickly, heading back into the kitchen before my pants betrayed me. She was pregnant. The last thing I wanted was to make her uncomfortable…or make this more complicated than it already was.
I seasoned the chicken—lightly. As lightly as I could. Coated it, dropped it into the pan.
Moments later, I felt her presence.
I turned.
She was standing there, staring at me like she had just seen something impossible.
"You're…you're…" she stuttered.
"Cooking for you," I said, smiling. "Yes, I am."
Something flickered in her eyes.
It was quick.
But I caught it.
Regret.
Pride.
Something soft…something that didn't belong to the version of her that hated me.
And for a second—just a second—my chest felt full.
Like maybe…
Maybe I hadn't lost her completely.
Then it vanished.
Just like that.
She swallowed, turned, and walked back to the dining room.
I exhaled slowly, a small smile forming on my lips.
She still felt something.
Even if she refused to admit it.
I plated the chicken, added a napkin, and joined her.
I didn't eat.
I just watched.
She took a drumstick, dipped it deep into the balsamic vinegar, and took a bite.
Then she hummed.
Actually hummed.
Her shoulders moved slightly, a small rhythm, like she forgot I was even there.
Like she was just…herself.
Unfiltered.
Free.
She reached for another piece.
And then—
Her eyes lifted.
Locked with mine.
I swallowed.
Now, I watch movies when I have time.
And if there's one thing I've learned—
Never.
Ever.
Fuck with a pregnant woman.
Her eyes glazed.
Tears.
Out of nowhere.
"Why are you crying?" I asked immediately, my voice tightening with concern.
She pointed at the chicken.
The quiet tears turned into loud sobs.
Real ones.
The kind that don't make sense.
"The chicken?" I looked between her and the plate. "What did it do?"
"It's not—" she hiccuped, "—it's not spicy enough!"
I froze.
That…that was the problem?
I watched her spit the chicken out like it had betrayed her.
Then she stood up and walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving me sitting there.
Confused.
Speechless.
Completely lost.
What the hell just happened?
A few minutes later, the door opened.
Reginald.
I didn't even need to look. That strong cedar scent hit me first.
"Smells nice in here," he said, already reaching for a wing.
He took a bite.
I leaned back slightly, already knowing what was coming.
His eyes widened instantly.
"The amount of spice in this—" he coughed, grabbing water, "—would make a Chinese man question his life choices! Why so hot?"
I didn't answer.
"And…where's Brenda?" he asked, glancing upstairs.
I shook my head and started clearing the table.
"Today was supposed to be one of the best days I've had in a long time," I said quietly.
Then I told him everything.
Every single part.
By the time I finished—
He burst out laughing.
Loud.
Uncontrolled.
"I'm sorry—I just—" he tried to stop, but failed. Again.
I just stared at him.
Because that was Reginald.
Wise…when you needed him.
Useless…when you needed him most.
And right now—
I really needed him to not laugh.