Chapter Fifteen

(Selena's POV)

The house still looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same. The walls were still painted that soft cream my mother swore made the rooms feel larger. The flowerbeds were still trimmed perfectly, as if the hydrangeas and roses had been waiting politely for my return. And the chandelier in the entryway still cast its golden glow over the polished marble floor.

I couldn’t breathe properly. It became hard to breathe from the moment the car pulled into the driveway and Damien stepped out beside me like a polished ornament, his hand at the small of my back, firm and possessive. I hate the feel of his hand even through the fabric of my dress—like the pressure of a lie pressing down on me.

The last time I walked through this door was the morning of my wedding.

I remember standing at the top of the stairs, clutching my bouquet, my heart hammering so loudly it drowned out everything. I remember my mother’s proud smile, my father’s stiff approval, and the way I wanted to scream that I don’t want this. But I walked down those stairs anyway.

And now, I'm back here; married and pregnant with another man's child, pretending all is well.

“Sweetheart!” my mother’s voice rang out before I even reached the foyer. She was already walking briskly toward me in heels too high for a woman her age, arms stretched wide, ready to envelope me in a hug.

I smiled—tight-lipped. It felt brittle on my face.

She wrapped me in a hug and then turned to Damien, kissing both his cheeks. “My handsome son-in-law! You’re looking sharp, as always.”

Damien offered his signature half-smile and replied, “You’re too kind, Clara.”

My father stood farther back in the study entrance, a glass of scotch in one hand, his posture as straight as ever. He didn’t bother with hugs, just a firm handshake for Damien and a nod in my direction.

“Dinner is almost ready,” my mother said, ushering us into the sitting room. “Come, sit. I have so much to talk about.”

I obeyed quietly, my gaze drifting to the walls lined with family portraits. There was one of me at sixteen—smiling wide, eyes full of light I couldn't recognize anymore. And next to it was a photo from my college graduation. I looked so hopeful then, standing between my parents, holding my degree like I believed my life would be my own.

I blinked hard and turned away.

My mother held a glass of champagne, gushing about how we looked like “the perfect couple.” She commented on my glowing skin—if only she knew the real reason—and asked about upcoming galas, and charity events.

I mumbled responses and nodded where I had to.

Damien, ever the performer, played his role effortlessly. His hand rested gently over mine, his voice filled the room with anecdotes about “our life” and “our future,” while his thumb traced patterns on my skin that felt more like reminders than affection.

“Your union has brought real stability to both companies,” my father said, finally joining the conversation. “The stock is steady and we’ve had better media coverage. This merger was the right decision.”

Decision.

Not love, commitment or choice.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, blinking hard against the memory of the boardroom meeting where I first found out about this arrangement. I felt like a piece of land being traded.

My mother was still talking. “And Selena, darling, you’ve grown so much. I remember how unsure you were before the wedding. But now, look at you, so composed and a perfect wife. You and Damien are simply meant to be.”

I didn’t dare speak because if I opened my mouth, I might scream, laugh or cry. And I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

We moved to the dining table when the food was ready, and as the staff served us roasted chicken, potatoes, and glazed carrots, I let my mind drift. The scent of rosemary reminded me of Sunday dinners long ago, when my mother would hum while cooking and my father would make stiff jokes about corporate takeovers.

Back when life was simple and not suffocating.

Now, everything felt like a performance.

Every bite of food, every word spoken, and every glance exchanged between my parents and Damien was part of a carefully constructed act. No one knew I was breaking inside. No one saw the tremor in my hand when I picked up my fork or noticed how often I pressed my hand to my stomach under the table, as if I could shield the tiny life growing inside me from what's happening around us.

I stared at my plate.

“Selena,” my mother said, interrupting my spiral, “You’re so quiet. Is everything alright?”

I looked up and forced another smile. “Just tired.”

“Of course. You’ve always been delicate. Are you getting enough sleep?”

I nodded.

Beside me, Damien took a sip of wine and added smoothly, “She’s been under the weather a bit. I told her to rest and not stress herself.”

The way he said it—like he was caring, thoughtful, and devoted—made me want to throw my water in his face. I could just imagine Sophia rolling her eyes from across the city.

“Well, rest is important,” my father said gruffly. “We can’t afford any distractions right now. The international expansion deal is sensitive.”

Distractions.

That’s what I’ve become to these people. An asset to keep polished, but never too involved.

“Do you remember,” my mother continued, smiling, “how you cried in your room the night before the wedding? Oh, I told you it was just nerves! And see? Everything turned out fine.”

My stomach twisted so hard I thought I might be sick.

Damien chuckled beside me. “She was worth every tear.”

I wanted to scream.

I straightened my back, my hands firmly holding the fork as I tried not to betray the queasiness curling in my stomach. Every smell in the room felt magnified—Damien’s cologne, the roasted chicken, the perfumed air freshener wafting through the dining hall.

I blinked slowly and reached for my glass of water. My mother’s eyes were on me again, sparkling with pride—or perhaps delusion—as she rested her hand lightly on my arm. “You’ve always looked so elegant, darling, but there’s something softer in your face now. Marriage suits you.”

I gave her a small smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Damien chuckled softly, reaching for his wine. “She’s been wonderful, strong and supportive. Everything a man could ask for.”

It took every ounce of willpower not to flinch. How dare he speak about me like that, with such practiced charm? We haven’t even shared the same hallway in days, let alone emotions. He was playing the role, just like he always does, and he's doing it so well that even my parents couldn’t see past the mask.

I forced a forkful of food into my mouth and immediately regretted it. The nausea hit like a wave. My stomach turned, sharp and urgent, and I barely swallowed before I felt the telltale burn rise in my throat.

“I—I’m sorry, excuse me,” I stammered, pushing back from the table.

My mother’s concerned “Selena?” echoed faintly behind me as I fled down the hall toward the guest bathroom. I barely made it in time, slamming the door shut behind me, falling to my knees as my body rebelled against me.

My hair clung to my face, sweat lining my brow. After what felt like an eternity, I flushed, rinsed my mouth, and splashed cold water on my face. I stayed leaning over the sink, breathing deeply, willing the spinning to stop.

When I finally opened the door, my breath caught in my throat.

My mother stood there, arms folded tightly over her chest, her expression etched with worry and something sharper—intuition.

“Selena,” she said softly, eyes searching mine, “Are you sick?”

“I just…” I tried to move past her. “Something didn’t sit well with me, that’s all.”

She didn’t budge. “You’ve looked pale all evening. Are you sure everything's fine?”

I looked away.

She stepped forward, gently cupping my face with both hands. “Sweetheart, you know you can talk to me.”

I blinked rapidly, swallowing down the fresh lump in my throat. “I’m fine, really. It's just stress.”

Her hands dropped slowly to her sides, her eyes narrowing just slightly—more in realization than anger. The silence stretched between us, heavy and humming.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

It hit like a slap.

My lips parted, but no words came out. I didn’t have the strength to lie and I also didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. So I said nothing.

She exhaled, stepping back. “Oh my God…”

My legs trembled beneath me as I leaned against the wall. Her face was a mixture of concern and confusion, the kind only a mother could carry.

“Does Damien know?” she asked, voice more cautious now.

I shook my head, finally whispering, “No.”

She stepped closer again. “Selena, look at me.” When I didn’t, she gently touched my arm. “Why haven’t you told him?”

Because it’s not his baby. The words almost slipped past my lips.

It’s the baby of a man whose last name I don’t even know. A man I can’t forget or stop thinking about.

But I couldn’t say any of that. So I just whispered, “I needed to be sure first.”

She studied me closely, then nodded slowly. “You’ll have to tell him eventually. You can’t hide something like this.”

I looked up at her, tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. “I’m scared, Mom.”

She softened, her arms wrapping around me instantly. “Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered into my hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

I drowned in the safety of her embrace like I did as a little girl. But I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and nothing about this was okay.

Everything was unraveling faster than I could blink.