CHAPTER 04

They lived in Eric's luxury apartment in one of New York's most exclusive towers—an immense, cold space that felt more like a prison than a home.

Their encounters were limited to formal breakfasts, where Eric avoided even sitting near her, a spotless ghost who ate in silence before disappearing toward the summit of his empire.

Bianca spent hours locked away, her only company the echo of her own footsteps across the pristine marble floors. She was forbidden to leave—an unspoken rule, yet clearly understood. The giant windows offered spectacular views of the city, but she felt more trapped than ever.

That morning, the ritual repeated itself. Eric finished his coffee, stood up without glancing her way, and left the dining room, the sound of his firm footsteps fading until the front door clicked softly shut. Bianca sat alone, her breakfast untouched and an oppressive emptiness knotting her stomach. Her head began to spin, and a wave of nausea hit her hard.

She tried to get up to go to the bathroom, but her legs buckled. Her vision blurred, and the world whirled around her in a dizzying vortex. A deafening buzzing filled her ears. Her knees gave out, and the last image her eyes caught before total darkness was the gleaming floor.

The click of the door echoed again. Eric, having forgotten crucial documents for a morning meeting, had returned to the apartment with unusual impatience. He walked into the dining room and stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze landed on Bianca's slumped figure on the floor, pale and seemingly lifeless. For an instant, his icy mask of indifference cracked, revealing a spark of alarm.

He approached her with unaccustomed speed. Kneeling down, the hand that had always pushed her away pressed against her forehead. It was cold.

"Bianca!" he called, his voice louder than usual, carrying a note of urgency she hadn't heard since the accident.

He gathered her in his arms, feeling how light she was, and hurried toward the elevator. The guards, startled, cleared a path as Eric held her with a restlessness he didn't recognize.

The trip to the hospital was a blur.

The chill of the hospital gurney woke Bianca. The sterile white light blinded her for a moment. She felt a pinch in her arm where an IV had been placed. Next to her, a doctor with a kind face spoke in a calm voice.

"Mrs. Harrington, you're going to be fine. You just need to rest and eat better. Have you been experiencing morning sickness?"

Bianca frowned. Morning sickness? She hadn't thought about that.

It was then that Eric's voice rang out from the back of the room, as cold as an icicle.

"Morning sickness, Doctor?" Irony dripped from every word. "Isn't it obvious? Explain it to her once and for all, since she seems too naive to understand what's happening to her own body."

The doctor, looking somewhat uncomfortable, glanced at Eric and then at Bianca.

"Well, Mr. Harrington, judging by the preliminary test results and the symptoms, your wife is... pregnant."

The word pregnant hung in the air like a bomb. Bianca's eyes widened, and her breath caught. Pregnant. It couldn't be.

Eric stepped forward, his glacial gaze fixed on her, now tinged with frozen fury.

"You see that, Bianca?" His voice was a lethal whisper meant only for her ears. "Tell me straight out. Who is the father? Who did you sleep with? Wasn't it enough to ruin my life with Aitana's death, that you now have the nerve to bring a bastard into this house?"

The air rushed from her lungs. She felt trapped, suffocated by the accusation. How could she tell him? How could she confess that the father of her baby was him, Eric Harrington?

That night—the night Aitana asked her to pretend to be her so Aitana could see her true love, her impossible love, Steven—Aitana had explained that she knew anyway that Eric was drunk and wouldn't recognize her. That was the night that man, amidst the alcohol, had made her his. He would never believe her. He would consider her a liar, a manipulator, an even greater impostor than he already thought her to be.

Bianca's silence was her condemnation. Eric's words continued, each one like a lash.

"See? Silence. The truth eats away at you, doesn't it? You were always easy, a wolf in sheep's clothing playing the saint. While I've been working, you've been spreading your legs for the first guy who crossed your path."

Tears welled in her eyes, hot and painful, but she made no sound. Any defense was useless. He had already judged and sentenced her. The cruelty in his eyes was unbearable—a bottomless pit of contempt. She felt smaller than ever, vulnerable, and completely alone against the implacable fury of Eric Harrington.

"Eric... stop."

The doctor walked out, leaving them alone, feeling sorry for the woman.

"Stop? Do you want me to applaud you? Give you a prize? You know what I'll give you? A divorce. Congratulations, Bianca."

She didn't look at him, keeping her hands tightly clasped together. Aching. She wouldn't apologize, she wouldn't beg for forgiveness. Why do it again when she was guilty of nothing? She was tired of being pointed at, yet she was innocent.

"He is your baby, he is your son!" she pointed out. "We were together, you don't remember, but we spent the night together."

A dry laugh from Harrington assured her that, no matter how hard she tried, she would only receive hatred from him.

"Nice try," he said, standing up from the chair he had occupied. "We're going back to the apartment. There's nothing more to discuss; we're ending this absurd marriage. My parents and yours won't object—after all, you messed up. Your parents should start thinking about where to go; I doubt my parents will show any mercy for what their in-laws' daughter has done."

It sounded less like a threat and more like a final verdict.