Chapter 6

Charles' private medical team was the absolute best money could buy.

On my seventh day in the hillside villa, they airlifted a supply of the latest bone marrow growth factor medication from overseas. A single dose cost more than a typical doctor's annual salary.

"Ms. Sinclair, this is currently the most effective treatment protocol for bone marrow failure. Mr. Grant's instructions were clear: spare no expense," explained Dr. Leonard Hawthorn, the lead physician, handing me the treatment plan with respectful deference.

I lay on the specialized medical bed, gazing at the mountain view outside the window.

Spring was approaching. The snow had begun to melt, and tender green buds were emerging from the barren branches.

"What are the success rates?" I asked.

"With a concomitant stem cell transplant, we estimate a sixty percent chance. However, we have yet to locate a suitable donor. Your blood type is rare, making a match particularly difficult," Leonard replied, adjusting his glasses.

"And if you don't find one?"

"Medication alone can only slow down the failure—it can't reverse it." He paused briefly. "And as your pregnancy goes on, the baby's demand for your blood production will keep increasing... When that happens, you might have to end the pregnancy early."

My hand tightened over my abdomen.

It had been sixteen weeks. Just days ago, the ultrasound had shown tiny arms and legs, and I had begun to feel faint flutters of movement—like a small fish swimming gently inside.

"Keep searching for a donor. I want to keep this baby," I said firmly.

Leonard looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end just nodded. "We'll do our best."

After he left, the room settled back into silence.

A soft knock preceded the butler's entrance, bearing a tray. "Ms. Sinclair, it's time for your medicine."

The dark brown herbal concoction emitted a bitter aroma. Beside it lay a small dish of candied fruit—a thoughtful addition Charles had specifically ordered, having somehow learned of my aversion to bitterness.

Holding my nose, I gulped the medicine down, the acrid taste numbing my tongue before I quickly popped a piece of candied fruit into my mouth.

"Will Mr. Grant be back tonight?" I inquired.

The butler lowered his head. "Mr. Grant had to go to Euraneo for an emergency. He'll be back in three days. He told me to make sure you get some rest, and if you need anything, you can reach out to him anytime."

I nodded in acknowledgement.

I'd been living here for half a month, and Charles had only been home for less than three days in total.

But he had everything handled with meticulous care—the medical team was on call around the clock, the nutritionist tailored every meal, and even the bedroom's humidity and temperature were tuned just right for someone expecting.

He was attentive to every detail, yet never crossed the line—always keeping just the right amount of distance.

It was like he was a pro project manager running a high-stakes job.

And I was the project in question.

My phone vibrated with an incoming video call from an unknown number.

After a moment's hesitation, I answered.

Lucas' face appeared on the screen.

He looked like he'd lost a ton of weight, his eyes hollow and his chin covered in dark, scruffy stubble. His white coat was crumpled, the collar undone; he looked utterly drained.

Behind him was his office, a framed photo of him with his mother still hanging on the wall.

"Nora, where are you?" he rasped, his voice gravelly with strain.

I met his gaze. Those eyes I had been infatuated with for a decade were now bloodshot, filled with a profound, desperate pain and a trace of pleading.

"Is there something you need?" I asked.

"My mom... she's gone. She was buried yesterday," he said, his lips trembling.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

"Nora!" He suddenly raised his voice. "Why are you so calm? That was my mom—the woman who watched you grow up!"

I regarded him calmly. "And? Lucas, what do you want me to say? That I'm devastated, too? That I regret not donating my marrow to save her?"

He stared at me intently, as if searching for any hint of pretense.

But there was none. I truly felt no sorrow.

Or rather, whatever grief I might have felt had been utterly exhausted the moment he told me, "My only regret is ever knowing you."

"Where's Vivian? Didn't she stick around?" I asked.

Lucas' expression froze for an instant.

"She's... not feeling well. She's resting at home," he replied.

I let out a low, biting laugh. "What is it this time? Is her leukemia 'relapsing' again, or perhaps she suddenly needs to be on bed rest for her precious pregnancy?"

Lucas' face paled dramatically. "How did you know she was pregnant?"

So it was true. Vivian really was pregnant.

"Lucky guess. Given how much she 'adores' you, it was only a matter of time before she carried your child," I replied, my voice thick with sarcasm.

Lucas fell silent. His gaze dropped to the photo frame on his desk—a picture of him and Vivian on a cruise ship, her head resting on his shoulder, both smiling.

"Nora." He looked up suddenly, an unsettling intensity in his eyes. "Is the baby you're carrying... actually mine?"

My heart tightened, but I kept my expression blank. "Why would you ask that?"

"I counted the weeks." His eyes were fixed on my abdomen. "If it were mine, it would be around thirteen weeks. But Vivian told me... she saw you being led into a hotel room by another man that night."

So Vivian had made her move, just as I expected.

"So? You believe her?" I shot back.

"I checked the hotel security footage." His voice grew strained, quieter. "That night... a man did enter your room. And... he wasn't the only one."

My grip tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white.

"Lucas, ten years. In all that time, have I ever seemed like the type to sleep around so casually?" I said, each word deliberate.

He avoided my gaze. "I just want the truth."

I replied, "The truth is, I was drunk that night. Someone helped me back to my room. I woke up the next morning remembering nothing. As for who the father is—does it even matter? It's not like you'd want it anyway."

Lucas' head jerked up. "If it's mine, I'll take responsibility!"

"How?" A cold laugh escaped me. "By marrying me? Or by paying for me to get rid of it?"

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

There it was. This was Lucas—unwilling to offer even a comforting lie.

I sighed, saying, "Lucas, we've known each other for ten years. If you'd ever once thought about marrying me, we wouldn't be where we are now."

"I..." Lucas started.

"Don't say anything." I cut him off. "I'm sorry about your mom. But whatever we had... it's over."

"Nora!" Lucas sounded panicked. "Where are you? I'll come find you!"

"Don't. I'm fine. I'm a million times better off than when I was with you," I said.

I ended the video call. My hands shook—not from sorrow, but from a cold, simmering rage.

For ten years, I gave everything to a man whose first instinct, upon hearing I might be carrying another's child, was doubt about my virtue, not concern for my well-being.

My phone buzzed again—Lucas had sent a long text.

[Nora, I know I was wrong. After my mother passed, I did a lot of thinking. I really haven't treated you right these past ten years.]

[But you can't punish me like this. If you're really carrying someone else's child... just get an abortion. I'll go with you. Then we can start over, okay?]

I read it and laughed—a hollow, broken sound that dissolved into tears.

So he finally saw his mistakes? A pity it was far too late.

It was too late the moment he drained my bone marrow to save Vivian.

Too late when he left me stranded in the snow.

Too late the second he demanded, "Is the child mine?"

Our path ended long ago.

My reply was brief: [Lucas, I don't need your pity. I'm keeping this baby, and it has nothing to do with you. As for starting over—Try if there's another life.]

I hit send and blocked him for good.

Peace at last—the world finally felt quiet.