"I'm coming!" I called, rushing down the spiral staircase to meet him.

The moment I turned to face him, the pungent scent of alcohol hit me. Donovan smiled, his eyes glassy, as he pulled me into a rough embrace. His grip was so careless that we both tumbled to the floor, him landing on top of me. Before I could push him off, he retched, vomiting all over my clothes. The stench and mess confirmed that he had way too much to drink again.

"Ah, fuck. I'm sorry," He muttered, his voice slurred.

Suppressing a sigh, I got up and motioned for the maids to help us. Together, we managed to haul him up toward the bedroom. Donovan hated anyone else touching him when he was like this, so once we laid him on the bed, I sent the maids away.

I fetched a cold compress and a towel, and as I returned, I began unbuttoning his polo, revealing his familiar well-built chest. Gently, I wiped him down, trying to ease his discomfort.

He was still awake, though, watching me with a gaze that felt... different. His eyes lingered on me in a way they hadn't in a long time.

"Damn, Clara," he rasped, his voice low, "you're still so beautiful."

Before I could respond, he pulled me toward him, our faces brushing together, and without warning, our lips met in a kiss that tasted of both longing and regret.

I pulled away after only ten seconds, the taste of alcohol lingering on my lips, and the reality sinking in. Donovan wouldn't kiss me if he weren't sober.

The truth pressed hard against me, but before I could get up, he grabbed me again, his hands moving deliberately, caressing my chest.

"Donovan... I don't want to do this," I whispered.

But my words fell on deaf ears. He tightened his grip and shifted, forcing us to switch positions. Now, he was on top of me, his body heavy, trapping me beneath him. His fingers intertwined with mine, pinning me down. Then, our eyes locked, and though I tried to search for a trace of the man I once knew, all I saw was control.

"I missed the way you feel, Clara," He said, his voice laced with dominance. There was no warmth in his words, only possession.

I knew better than to resist.

The last time I had, the bruises had taken weeks to fade.

So I stayed still, allowing him to take what he wanted. As he kissed me again, I felt none of the tenderness we once shared. His lips moved against mine, but it was only driven by lust and the haze of alcohol, nothing more.

"I want you naked, my wife," He murmured, his voice thick with desire.

My wife.

Those words, slipping from Donovan's lips, stirred something in me. That despite everything—the pain and the cruelty he caused me—it still made my heart lift in a way I couldn't explain.

His touches grew more insistent, and against my better judgment, I found myself giving in. I melted into his kisses, completely losing myself in the moment.

Things escalated quickly, and before I knew it, we were both naked, tangled in sweat and desire, the night consuming us.

Yet, when morning came, the cold emptiness of the bed greeted me. Donovan was gone, just as he always was after nights like this. No note, no explanation, just his absence. A hollow feeling settled in my chest as I lay bare on the bed, replaying the events of the night before.

Disgust and regret occupied me.

How had I let it happen again?

Weeks passed and Donovan's temper flared more frequently, leaving me with more bruises and tear-streaked cheeks.

But beyond that, something else was happening to me. I had been feeling nauseous lately, especially in the mornings. There were times where I would even vomit and crave foods I had never really liked.

So, today, I decided to visit the doctor to confirm what's going on with my body. As I sat in the sterile, quiet hospital lobby, my stomach churned with sickness and anxiety.

After a few minutes, the doctor finally appeared, holding a folder with my results, her expression calm but with a hint of something more.

"Thank you for patiently waiting, Madame Mancini. Here are your results," She said kindly, handing me the papers. I tried to scan through them, but before I could fully understand what I was reading, the doctor interrupted with a soft smile on her face.

"Congratulations."

My heart dropped.

"Doctor… what do you mean?" I asked, my voice weak.

She didn't hesitate. "Madame Clara Mancini, you are three weeks pregnant."

I've wanted to be pregnant for so long, but I know I shouldn't be. Donovan has made it clear. He never wanted children, never wanted to build a family with me.

"Is everything alright?" The doctor asked, her voice careful, as if she could sense the dread inside me.

I forced a smile and shook my head.

"Yes, definitely," I whispered before walking out. There was nothing I could feel but heaviness in my chest.

Hours have passed since I got the news, but my mind is still reeling. I'm pregnant. And I'm terrified.

How will Donovan react? What will he do when he finds out?

My thoughts spiral.

What if he lashes out? What if he does something terrible... to me, to our baby?

The fear is overwhelming.

I don't know how to tell him. I don't even know if I'll find the courage to say it. But one way or another, he has to know. I guess I just need to find the right moment, if there ever is one.

I sat on the couch in the leisure room, absentmindedly caressing my belly. I was lost in thought, when suddenly, fingers snapped in front of me. Donovan stood there, his eyes sharp.

"What the hell are you thinking? You look so tense," He muttered, his gaze piercing through me.

I swallowed hard, struggling to find my voice. "Uh… nothing. Just a headache," I managed to say, avoiding his eyes.

But as I spoke, my gaze fell to his lips—there was a fresh cut, like someone had bitten him. Then, my eyes drifted to his collar, where a faint lipstick stain stood out.

I blinked, trying to process what I was seeing. My mind raced with questions. Is he cheating on me? Did he just come from another woman's arms? Has this been going on for a while? The doubts and suspicions flooded me, but all I could manage to say was, "What... what is that?"

I saw Donovan stiffen slightly, panic flickering in his movements as he hastily wiped at the stain on his collar. "Are you serious? Are you accusing me of something? It's just a stain I got from my Ferrari!" His voice was defensive and the guilt radiated off him. "I'm not in the mood for this, Clara. I'm exhausted." With that, he brushed past me, clearly trying to avoid further confrontation.

Strangely, I felt numb.

No anger, no tears—just emptiness.

After a few moments, I retreated to my bedroom. We had long since decided on separate rooms—another indication of our crumbling relationship.

To distract myself from the chaos in my mind, I unlocked my phone and opened my social media, something I hadn't done in ages. Unexpectedly, the first post I saw was from someone close to Donovan.

It was Arlene Blake, Donovan's ex. His first love.

She had posted a photo from the airport two days after Donovan's party—the night he had hit me before claiming he had to meet a friend arriving from abroad.

Suddenly, something inside me says that none of this was coincidental. And as I pieced things together, dread settled over. Could he have been meeting her all along?

I turned off my phone and closed my eyes.

Could that friend have been Arlene?

I shook the thought away. Impossible. Arlene's married now, I reminded myself, trying to push down the lingering doubts.

A month passed, and I still hadn't found the courage to tell Donovan about the pregnancy. But today, it seemed like my secret was going to come out whether I was ready or not.

I was in the bathroom, hit by another wave of nausea. It was the third time I'd thrown up today. Unfortunately, this time, Donovan barged in, slamming the door open, catching me mid-vomit.

"Clara!" He shouted, gripping my arms tightly, forcing me to face him. "Why are you vomiting?" His voice was already harsh, the fact that he didn't know anything yet.