Chapter 2

By the fourth month after the divorce, my belly was already showing.

I wore a loose hoodie when I went out. From a distance, no one could tell.

But up close, it was obvious.

That day, I went downstairs to buy milk and ran into someone at the entrance of the complex.

It was Freddie Parham, Jefferson's assistant.

He froze when he saw me. "Mrs. Motley?"

"I'm not Mrs. Motley anymore," I said.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Mr. Motley asked me to take care of something nearby." His eyes kept drifting to my stomach. "Mrs. Motley, are you pregnant?"

I didn't say anything.

His expression turned complicated. After a pause, he asked, "Does Mr. Motley know?"

"No," I said. "And I don't plan on telling him."

He hesitated. "But—"

"Freddie," I cut in. "Jefferson and I are divorced. This child is mine. It has nothing to do with him."

Freddie looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just nodded and walked away.

I thought that was the end of it.

But the next day, Jefferson showed up.

When I opened the door, I had just finished throwing up. My face was pale, and my hair was a mess.

He stood there in a suit, looking like he had come straight from the office. His tie was tight, and there wasn't a wrinkle on him.

He glanced at my belly, and his expression turned grim.

"Sophie, you're pregnant," he said.

It was not a question. He was just stating the obvious.

I leaned against the doorframe and did not move aside. "Why are you here?"

"The baby is mine," he said.

"I got pregnant after the divorce," I said.

He narrowed his eyes. "You're lying. You wouldn't have been with another man after the divorce."

"How do you know?" I challenged.

"Because before the divorce, you barely left the house," he said. "Sophie, you can't lie. Every time you lie, your right index finger moves."

I glanced down at my right hand without thinking.

My index finger was twitching.

I clenched my fist.

"The child is mine," he said again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And then what?" I looked straight at him. "Jefferson, did you come here because of the child?"

He was silent for a few seconds.

Those few seconds felt worse than any answer.

Before, I would have made excuses for him. I would have told myself that he just needed time and didn't know how to express his feelings.

But I was done doing that. I was tired.

"Please leave," I said. "I'll raise the child on my own. It has nothing to do with you."

His tone softened. "Sophie—"

"Go back to Rebecca," I said with a small smile. "She's prettier, more interesting, and a better talker than I am. She's better in every way. You waited seven years for her. Now that you have her, don't waste your time here."

Something flickered in his eyes.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he did not.

I shut the door.

Leaning against it, I could hear him standing outside.

He stayed there for a long time. About fifteen minutes later, I finally heard his footsteps fade away.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

It wasn't because Jefferson showed up.

It was because something hit me out of nowhere.

How did he know where I lived?

Freddie had only seen me the day before. Jefferson found me the next day.

That meant Freddie told him right away, and Jefferson tracked down my address overnight.

He came first thing in the morning.

Jefferson had always been decisive.

But I never thought he would go that far for an ex-wife.

I told myself it was because of the child.

By the fifth month after the divorce, I received a package.

Inside was a bank card with 1.5 million dollars on it.

There was also a note with just Jefferson's name.

I stared at it for a long time.

His handwriting was sharp and clean, just like him.

I used to keep a sticky note that he had written. It only said, "Buy milk."

I treated it like something precious and kept it in a drawer.

When I left, I did not take anything with me. That note stayed behind in the Motley family house.

I put the card away and never used it.

It wasn't about pride.

I just did not want any more ties to him.

By the sixth month after the divorce, my health got worse.

The doctor said my condition was not good. My blood pressure was high, and the baby was developing a little slowly.

They suggested I stay in the hospital.

I went through the paperwork alone and moved into a room by myself.

The woman in the next bed had her husband with her. He peeled apples for her every day, helped her to the bathroom, and talked to her at night.

I turned over and pretended to be asleep.

One night, I got up to use the restroom and ran into someone in the hallway.

It was Rebecca.

She was wearing a hospital gown and looked pale. A nanny stood beside her.

She looked surprised. "Sophie? What are you doing here?"

I did not answer her question. "What happened to you?"

"Appendicitis. I had a minor surgery," she said with a small smile. "What about you? Are you pregnant?"

I nodded.

Her expression shifted. It looked like she wanted to say something, but she held it back.

A few days later, she was discharged.

Before she left, she came to my room. "Sophie, can we talk?"

I leaned against the headboard and nodded.

She sat at the edge of the bed and stayed quiet for a long time. Then she said, "Jefferson and I are not together."

I froze for a second.

"At the supermarket, when you asked, I said we were. I lied," she said, looking down. "I had just come back, and he was taking care of me. I thought he still liked me. I wanted you to back off."

"What happened after that?" I asked.

"Later, I realized his heart wasn't with me," she said with a bitter smile. "He was just being kind as a friend. The person he really cared about was you."

I shook my head. "No way."

"Do you know why that photo of us entering the apartment was taken?" she asked.

I stayed silent.

She said, "I was drunk that day. He was taking me home. The reporters were arranged by my company. They wanted to use Jefferson's fame to stir up some buzz.

"Jefferson knew, but he let it go because he felt he owed me."

Rebecca looked at me, her eyes a little red. "Sophie, for seven years, I thought he would wait for me. But when I came back, I realized he wasn't the same. He talked less. He smiled less. And there was someone else in his heart."

"It's not me," I said.

"It is," she said. "He has photos of you on his phone. So many of them. Of you eating, reading, watering plants on the balcony. He thought I didn't know, but I saw everything."

I felt a jolt of surprise. "Those photos—"

"He took them in secret," she said. "For three years."

I froze.

He had been taking pictures of me for three years.

How could someone who did not love me do that?

After Rebecca left, I sat there for a long time.

I took out my phone and found Jefferson's number.

My finger hovered over the call button. Then I put the phone down.

Even if he had taken photos for three years, it did not change anything.

He still did not love me.

It was just his way of keeping records, like saving contracts or filing projects.

Our marriage was just another closed and stored-away file in his life. Nothing more.