Chapter 2
The staff member in front of me tapped impatiently on the desk.
She asked, "Ma'am, what should we put in the father's section? Where's the father?"
Eddie, with his usual cocky attitude, picked up the pen from the desk.
He smirked, "Wow, after all these years, your taste in men still sucks.
"Why not get back together with me? At least your kids won't have to grow up as a basta..."
His words were abruptly cut off.
A long, slender hand reached out and snatched the pen from Eddie's grasp.
With a swift, confident motion, he signed his name in the father's section, Frederick Scott.
I stared at that name, frozen in place.
Back when I won the International Contemporary Art Award, he was the judge who presented me with the trophy.
After that, we worked together on several art tours, traveling from city to city.
But when I chose love and stepped away from the spotlight, he quietly faded out of my world.
I never thought I'd cross paths with him again, especially in a place like this.
Eddie's face darkened instantly. He opened his mouth, but for some reason, he held back.
Frederick couldn't be bothered to look at him. He took my arm and briskly led me out the door.
It was drizzling as I scrambled into the car, feeling out of place.
Frederick tossed his coat at me, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Preston is one of the heirs to the Scott Group. He's my half-brother," Frederick said.
I was thrown off. Without thinking, I blurted out, "No way. He's a delivery guy."
I met Preston's parents at our wedding. They were simple, hardworking country folks.
Frederick gave me a cool, indifferent glance, didn't bother to answer, and then dropped a bombshell.
He said, "The next head of the Scott family needs an heir. I can't have kids.
"Meredith, with your talent, you should've been an internationally renowned artist.
"Instead, you ended up sacrificing everything for someone else's love.
"Marry me, and I'll help you reclaim your place in the art world.
"I'll raise your kids as if they were my own.
"Let me know when you've decided."
The Maybach came to a sudden stop in front of the hotel listed on the invitation.
This was the most luxurious seven-star hotel in the city. One night there would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Preston, a delivery guy pulling in two thousand dollars a month, could never dream of affording a place like that.
I got out of the car, my legs stiff and unsteady.
At the hotel entrance, I ran into Preston.
My heart was pounding as I instinctively ducked behind a pillar, peeking out to watch him.
He was dressed to the nines in a custom-made suit worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
The staff on both sides bowed in unison, greeting him respectfully.
He looked unfazed, like he'd been living this kind of life forever.
He was holding that familiar, cheap floral-patterned lunchbox, and without hesitation, he dumped it into the trash.
His childhood friend behind him frowned and called out, trying to stop him.
"Preston, someone clearly put a lot of effort into making this meal. It's a shame to toss it.
"If you're not gonna eat it, you could at least feed it to the dogs."
Preston clicked his tongue. "My dog only eats the finest ingredients, flown in from overseas. This cheap takeout would probably make it sick.
"If you feel bad about tossing it, you can have it and feed it to your dogs from now on."
I felt a chill run through me, my hands so shaky that I could barely hold my phone.
Preston had a sensitive stomach and was incredibly picky about his food.
After we got married, I got up at four every morning to make him breakfast.
He'd even post about my homemade lunchboxes on his social media, showing off how much he loved them.
He wrote, [My amazing wife gets up every morning to make me breakfast. Once I make it big, I'll hire a housekeeper so she never has to work this hard again.]
But at this moment, he threw away all the care and heart I poured into those meals, like it meant nothing to him.
The aroma of the food lingered in the air.
That wave of nausea hit me again.
"Mr. Scott, Ms. Harper is throwing up again," one of the staff called out.
Preston's expression shifted instantly. He was gone in a flash, vanishing into the banquet hall.
The guests at the party looked on with envy.
"Mr. Scott really spoils his wife," one of them said.
"Yeah, because she's pregnant, he splurged 1.5 million on a party for her," another chimed in.
Someone else cut in, "That's nothing. When the doctor said his wife was having a tough pregnancy, he spent over one billion to buy her a private island so she could relax and recover.
"He's the ultimate wife-doting maniac."
I looked down at myself.
My maternity clothes were secondhand and so faded from washing.
My shoes were ten dollars, clearance rack rejects.
When I was pregnant, my belly was so heavy that I couldn't sleep a wink at night. I wanted a decent maternity pillow to make things a little easier.
Preston pulled out his phone to check his balance and saw only 3.5 dollars left. He looked utterly crushed.