3

"Liora! Where have you been?"

I had barely stepped through the servants' entrance when Maya rushed toward me from the shadows of the pantry. She looked so anxious that my heart immediately sank into my throat. Before I could even set my medical bag down, she grabbed my wrist, her fingers pinching tight, and began dragging me down the stone corridor.

"What happened?" I whispered, struggling to keep pace with her hurried, clipping steps.

"Mr. Hawthorne has ordered every single maid in the mansion to gather in the main hall. Right now. I've been looking for you everywhere."

My stomach tightened into a hard, painful knot. The first thing that flashed across my mind was the clinic. Had someone somehow found out? Did the doctor contact the estate? Had my secret already been exposed? The ridiculous, terrifying thoughts collided in my head so fast that my palms instantly broke into a cold sweat.

I forced myself to swallow, trying to anchor my voice. "Did they say why?"

Maya shook her head, her grip still tight on my arm. "No one knows what's going on. All I know is that the young master came back this morning, and there's been shouting ever since. Everyone upstairs is terrified."

At the mention of the young master, my steps faltered.

For the last two months, I had done everything humanly possible to block him out. Every time his face tried to creep into my mind, I immediately pushed it away. Every time the sensory memory of that dark room threatened to paralyze me, I forced myself to scrub a floor or polish silver until my arms ached.

But some memories refused to stay buried. The father of my child had returned. The realization made my chest tighten with a suffocating weight because I knew, with absolute certainty, that I did not want this pregnancy.

"Come on," Maya urged, tugging me forward. "We're already late."

I nodded numbly and followed her, but every step toward the grand main hall only made the internal screaming louder. The closer we got, the louder the booming voices became. By the time we reached the towering double doors of the entrance, the argument inside was impossible to ignore.

"You had absolutely no right to do that!"

The deep, resonant voice sent a violent chill straight down my spine. I froze before I could stop myself. Even after two months, I recognized that timbre instantly.

My eyes instinctively swept the grand room, finding him standing near the center of the marble floor.

Adrian Hawthorne.

For a brief, terrifying second, the rest of the room simply ceased to exist. He looked exactly as he had in my memories. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his tailored suit fit his broad shoulders flawlessly, and there was an effortless, magnetic confidence about him that commanded the air even when he wasn't trying. He was the kind of man people noticed the millisecond he entered a room. Judging by the rigid, nervous postures of the staff around me, I wasn't the only one staring.

Then, the reality of the clinic report hit me like a physical blow.

This wasn't just Adrian Hawthorne, the untouchable heir. This was the father of the baby growing inside me—or rather, the soon-to-be-gone mistake growing inside me.

As I stared at him, a strange, treacherous feeling settled deep in my chest. My gaze lingered on the sharp line of his jaw. Without meaning to, a stray thought flashed through my mind: What would a child that belonged to both of us look like? Would the baby inherit those dark, striking eyes? Or would he have his smile?

The thought shocked me so badly it felt like a slap. I pulled my gaze away, my face burning. What was I doing? There wasn't going to be a baby. I had already made my decision. The moment I got the chance, I would return to the hospital and figure out how to put an end to this nightmare before it ruined my life completely.

"You drugged me."

Adrian's furious accusation sliced through the hall, instantly deadening every whisper among the gathered servants. Nobody dared to breathe. Nobody dared to move.

Mr. Hawthorne stood opposite his son, leaning slightly on his cane, his expression so completely calm that it was infuriating. "If that's what you want to call it, then yes."

A shocked, low murmur rippled through the line of maids before everyone quickly choked it back, falling dead silent again.

Adrian stared at his father as though he were looking at a stranger. "If that's what I want to call it?" he repeated, a bitter, dangerous edge to his voice. "You slipped something into my drink, and you're talking about it as though it's completely normal."

Mr. Hawthorne didn't look the least bit guilty. "I did what needed to be done."

"What needed to be done?" Adrian laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "You drugged your own son."

"I gave my son an opportunity to stop running away from responsibility."

The older man's words made my entire body go dead cold. A terrible, sickening realization began to piece itself together in my mind. That night... the strange, erratic way Adrian had behaved... the fact that he seemed completely unlike himself, barely conscious, dragging his syllables...

None of it had been an accidental bender. Mr. Hawthorne had orchestrated it. He had planned the entire trap. I suddenly felt so violently sick I thought I might throw up right on the marble floor.

"You've completely lost your mind," Adrian said, breaking through the ringing in my ears.

"Maybe," his father replied smoothly. "But at least one of us is thinking about the future of this family."

"What future?"

"The future that requires an heir."

Adrian let out another sharp, disbelieving laugh. "If you're so desperate for another child, father, then perhaps you should have one yourself."

Several maids gasped aloud. I nearly stopped breathing entirely. Nobody spoke to Mr. Hawthorne like that. Nobody.

The older man's expression darkened instantly, the atmosphere in the room dropping to sub-zero. "You seem to be forgetting who you're speaking to."

"And you seem to be forgetting that I'm your son, not one of your business investments."

The tension between them was so thick it felt like trying to breathe underwater. Neither man looked willing to back down. Neither man looked willing to compromise.

After several agonising moments of silence, Mr. Hawthorne finally spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. "You are thirty-two years old, Adrian."

Adrian rolled his eyes, his posture shifting into a defensive, mocking stance that screamed I knew this was coming.

"And you refuse to settle down," his father continued, his voice tight.

"I refuse to marry women I don't love," Adrian shot back with biting sarcasm.

"You refuse every woman I introduce to you!"

"Because they're your choices, father. Not mine."

Mr. Hawthorne slammed his heavy cane against the marble floor. The sharp, explosive crack echoed throughout the hall like a gunshot. Several servants flinched violently beside me.

"You think this is a game?" the older man roared.

"No," Adrian replied, his voice dropping into something deathly cold. "I think you're obsessed."

Mr. Hawthorne stared at his son for several long, agonizing seconds before he spoke again. This time, his voice was frighteningly, deeply calm—and that was infinitely worse.

"You were not alone that night."

The air left my lungs completely. The hall seemed to tilt.

Adrian's jaw tightened immediately. For the first time since the argument began, the absolute confidence cracked, and he looked genuinely uncomfortable. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?"

"I was barely conscious," Adrian muttered, looking away.

"Exactly." Mr. Hawthorne smiled, a slow, predatory expression. He turned his head, his sharp eyes slowly pivoting toward the line of maids.

My heart started pounding so violently against my ribs that I thought I might faint. His gaze moved from one face to another with deliberate, agonizing patience, studying every single person standing in the line.

I lowered my eyes immediately, fixing my gaze firmly on the polished floor. My hands were slick with sweat. Every terrible, ruinous possibility raced through my mind at once. If he looked at my waist, if he saw the sheer panic in my eyes...

Then, Mr. Hawthorne's voice rang out across the suffocating silence of the hall.

"Is there anyone among you who spent the night with my son two months ago?"

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

I kept my eyes pinned to the marble, squeezing my hands together so tightly my fingernails bit into my palms, terrified that if I even blinked, everyone would somehow know it was me. The frantic sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears, deafeningly loud.

Seconds passed. Then more seconds.

Before finally, Mr. Hawthorne nodded slowly, his cane resting still on the floor.

"Very well," he said, his voice carrying a chilling, decisive weight. "If nobody wishes to speak, then I suppose I'll have to handle this matter my own way."