Juliette POV

Kendrick continued his charade. He sat across from me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked earnest, concerned.

"We have to prioritize," he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if sharing a profound secret. "Our little one, our future. We need to build a solid foundation. That means cutting back everywhere we can, even on small luxuries like a little fan."

I just nodded. My throat felt tight. The heat was relentless. It seemed to magnify every sound, every movement.

He stood up and went to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap. He drank it slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every drop.

He did not offer me any.

"You've been so good, though," he said, turning back to me. A slight smile touched his lips. It did not reach his eyes. "So incredibly frugal. I noticed you didn't even buy that expensive sparkling water you like. That's the spirit, Juliette. That's how we'll get through this."

I remained silent. My head throbbed. I felt a dull ache in my lower back. The smell of my own sweat was cloying.

His words were a cruel mockery. He praised my forced deprivation, unaware that I knew the truth behind his "sacrifices."

He adjusted his old, faded shirt, an actor playing a part.

He walked over to me, pulled the crumpled twenty-dollar bill from my hand, and smoothed it out. He then folded it neatly and placed it back in my palm.

"This is for you," he said. His tone was condescending, like a parent giving a child an allowance. "For something small, a cold drink if you absolutely need it. But try to make it last, okay? Every penny counts."

I closed my fingers around the bill. Its insignificance was a bitter joke.

I gazed at him. His eyes held a self-satisfied gleam. He truly believed his performance. He thought I was blind, ignorant, easily manipulated.

I felt a cold resolve settle in my gut, hardening with each passing minute. The heat was oppressive, but inside me, something was chilling.

He had no idea I was now watching his every move, cataloging every lie—and I had already found the weapon that would destroy him.

The forum post was only the beginning. I needed more.

And I knew exactly where to look next. Kandy Richards had an Instagram account—public, foolishly public—and I had all night to scroll through every post she'd ever made.

Juliette POV

Kendrick launched into another soliloquy about his startup struggles. He paced the small living room, his brow furrowed, his voice filled with feigned stress.

"Sleepless nights, Juliette," he lamented. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it dramatically. "Just endless, endless worry. The market is brutal. Investors are ruthless. I'm doing everything I can, absolutely everything, but it's like swimming against a tidal wave."

He paused, glancing at me for a reaction.

I sat still, my face carefully neutral.

He was wearing the same faded shirt and worn jeans from yesterday. A calculated choice.

Yet, his hands, I noticed again, were too soft, too unblemished for a man under such immense "pressure." There were no ragged cuticles, no signs of stress-induced nail-biting, no calluses from late-night coding.

They were the hands of leisure, not struggle.

"I need some relief," I said, my voice hoarse from the dry, hot air. "A fan, anything. I feel so dizzy."

My head spun slightly, the room tilting. My skin felt clammy and slick.

He stopped his pacing. He looked genuinely annoyed for a split second before smoothing his expression into a mask of concern.

"Oh, baby," he said, his voice soft. He came over and gently stroked my forehead. His touch felt distant, alien. "I know, I know. It's tough. But we're almost there. Just a little longer, okay? Think of how proud our little one will be when we've built this empire together."

He lifted his hand from my forehead. My skin tingled with sweat. My shirt was damp, clinging uncomfortably to my back and belly. I could feel beads of perspiration trickling down my spine.

"Could I at least have some cold water?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Just a glass of cold water. My throat is burning."

He paused, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

He walked to the kitchen. I heard the tap running. My hopes rose. Maybe, just maybe, he would show a sliver of genuine care.

He returned, holding a steaming mug. My heart sank.

"Here you go," he said, handing me the mug. The ceramic was hot against my already overheated skin. "Warm water. Much better for you, sweetie. Cold water can shock your system, especially when you're pregnant. It's not good for the baby. We need to be careful."

The steam rose, curling into my face, coating it with even more heat. The thought of drinking that hot water made my stomach churn.

"You're being selfish, Juliette," he added, his voice hardening slightly. "Thinking only of your comfort when we're facing such hard times. We both need to make sacrifices. This is for our child."

I pushed the mug away with a weak hand. The hot liquid sloshed, threatening to spill.

He gave me a disapproving look.

"Alright, I've got to run," he said, ignoring the untouched mug. He patted my shoulder, a quick, dismissive gesture. "Big interview today. Could be the turning point, you know? Keep your fingers crossed."

He turned and walked towards the bedroom.

I watched him go, my fingers curling into fists.

That "interview" was a lie—and before the day was over, I would have proof. I had already memorized the address on the forum post. Kandy's apartment. That was where he was really going. And thanks to Kandy's public Instagram, I knew exactly which luxury building she lived in—the glass tower on Camelback, the one with the rooftop pool. The one I could see from our fire escape.