Guilty Pleasures

Sophia’s POV

I never imagined my life would begin to unravel inside a cold, overly white hospital room with the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

I sat on the examination table, legs swinging nervously, fingers clasped tightly in my lap. The doctor stepped in, her smile soft but unreadable. She held a folder I instinctively knew contained more than just routine results.

“Mrs. Cole,” she said gently, “You’re not unwell… you’re pregnant.”

My world stilled.

Pregnant.

It didn’t feel real. I blinked at her, waiting for her to laugh, for someone to pop out and tell me this was all a mistake. But the doctor’s smile didn’t falter.

“You’re already nine weeks along.”

I nodded slowly, murmuring thanks as she handed me the file and walked out, leaving me alone with the news.

I stared at the floor. Nine weeks. Two months. That meant the night I’d stumbled home crying after overhearing Ethan talk about how much he regretted our marriage the night he was drunk and angry, and for the first time in a long time, he reached for me like I still meant something that was the night everything changed.

I pressed a hand to my stomach. A baby. His baby.

But how could I tell a man who barely looked me in the eyes anymore?

***

My five-year marriage had been a silent war of sacrifices.

It wasn’t built on love, not from him anyway. I was the daughter of the Cole family’s housekeeper. My mother had served them for thirty years until age and illness finally caught up with her. I stepped in to help her when I was just seventeen—cooking, scrubbing, ironing Ethan’s shirts long before I even understood the weight of his name.

His parents loved me. Maybe more than they loved their own son. They saw me as loyal, responsible, grounded everything Ethan wasn’t at the time.

When his reckless lifestyle threatened the family’s reputation, his father laid out a condition in his will: Ethan would only inherit the company if he married me. The housekeeper’s daughter. Myself. The one who called him “sir” even after he grew into the man who now barely acknowledged my existence.

He was furious. He despised the idea. But money speaks louder than love, and I had neither to offer.

So he married me.

We stood before hundreds of guests, the press, the board, even his disapproving exes. I wore white and smiled. He wore a frown and didn’t look at me once during our vows.

That was five years ago.

Since then, I’ve lived in his mansion like a ghost in my own story. No kisses. No affection. Just cold glances, late nights, and silence.

I’d told myself I could earn his heart one day. That if I were kind enough, patient enough, he'd finally see me. But hope is a cruel thing. And now hope had given me a child I wasn’t sure he’d want.

***

When I got home, the mansion was quiet, as always.

I stepped into the dim living room, gripping the envelope from the hospital like it was a lifeline. I could do this. I would tell him. I had to.

His voice echoed from upstairs. He was on a call. I waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Finally, he came down the stairs, adjusting his cufflinks, not even noticing I’d been standing there.

“Ethan,” I said, heart hammering. “Can we talk?”

“Make it quick,” he muttered, already scrolling through his phone.

“I went to the hospital today.”

That got his attention. His brows furrowed, but his tone was clipped. “What for?”

“I wasn’t feeling well. I’ve been dizzy. Tired. I thought it was just stress.”

He looked up from his phone, eyes briefly scanning mine.

“And?”

I opened my mouth to tell him. To say, I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father. 

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, the phone rang again. He glanced at the screen and cursed. “It’s the hospital.”

He answered immediately, voice shifting. “Yes? Is she okay? What happened now?”

Sarian.

His mistress.

The woman who somehow, despite everything, had slithered into our lives under the excuse of illness.

She had a rare blood disorder. And of all the people in the world, I was her match.

Ethan insisted I donate. The first time, I agreed. The second time, I hesitated. The third time, I nearly collapsed from the loss.

But he never noticed.

He was too busy hovering around her, tucking blankets around her fragile form, stroking her hair, whispering reassurances I’d never heard.

And now she was calling again.

“She’s not responding well,” he muttered after the call. “I have to go.”

“But Ethan ” I tried.

He was already grabbing his keys. “We’ll talk later.”

He left.

And I stood in the silence, still clutching the pregnancy results, wondering how long I could carry this secret before it crushed me too.

Hours passed, and I sat in silence, waiting for him to come back, waiting for a chance to finally share the news. But instead, my phone buzzed on the table. I reached for it, my heart sinking when I saw the message.

Ethan: Come to the hospital now!

There was an address, one I recognised all too well. My stomach churned as I imagined what awaited me. Sarian. It was always Sarian.