Chapter 1

Dario Darwin came home well past midnight.

The living room lights were dim, and for once, no one stepped forward to take his briefcase or the suit jacket that reeked of alcohol and perfume.

There was no warm, stomach-soothing meal waiting for him on the table like there always had been.

After a brief pause, he strode straight into the bedroom.

I’d always been a light sleeper, and the alcohol churning in my gut had left me restless. The moment he entered, I stirred awake.

Seeing me conscious, Dario made his way to me.

He bent down, expecting me to loosen his tie and peel off his jacket.

“Why’d you sleep without me? No midnight snack either,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Just make a simple noodle soup with eggs and bring it to the study after I shower.”

At some point, Dario had grown used to me doing everything for him.

From major business decisions and social drinking engagements to the smallest details of daily life, including his meals, clothes, and even taking off his shoes.

I had become his employee and maid, anything but his wife.

That’s why he’d shoved me into that sea of leering men for another woman’s sake.

And why he had assumed I’d still play the doting servant tonight.

In psychology, it is known as the dog whistle effect. Train someone with love until they obey on command. Then all you need is a whisper, and they’ll kneel.

My love for Dario was the whistle in his hand.

When I didn’t move, a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

“You’re mad?” he asked, only now realizing something was wrong. Yet, there was no trace of remorse.

“Fran wasn’t feeling well. Since I brought her out, I couldn’t just ignore her, could I? You’re jealous about that?”

Whenever it came to Fran Fallon, he always had an excuse.

No matter how angry I got, no matter how low I stooped to beg him to come home, he always answered with that same irritated tone.

Because he knew, if he so much as frowned, I’d grovel for his forgiveness.

My love had become so pitiful, so small, it no longer required his care.

That’s why Dario never imagined I could be upset with him.

He walked over, unzipped his bag, pulled out a box of hangover pills, and tossed it at me.

“Come on, of course I care about you. Look—I even bought you something for the hangover.”

The box hit me squarely in the stomach, and a sharp pain twisted through my abdomen.

I couldn’t tell if it was acting up or the child inside me protesting.

When I looked down at the box, I realized the pills had already expired.

These were the same ones I’d stocked in his office’s private suite, back when I still worried about his drinking.

Where he’d been tonight was suddenly all too clear.

His careless gesture almost made me laugh.

If he had paid even the slightest attention, he would have seen the ultrasound report lying on the table.

Because of his difficult upbringing, he had always wanted a child.

So the moment I found out I was pregnant, I stopped wearing makeup.

Even when the stomach pains came, I avoided medicine, doing everything I could to protect my baby.

I had planned to tell him the happy news tonight, but he gave me a look of pure disdain when we met for the evening.

“You’re out without makeup? How am I supposed to introduce you to people looking like that?”

His words hit me like cold water.

I opened my mouth to tell him that I was pregnant, but before I could speak, he pushed me toward the table, making me take drinks in place of Fran.

“Fran is a pampered heiress, unlike you. What’s the big deal if you take a few drinks for her?”

Then he turned to the guests, smiling as he gestured toward me, “My wife’s just being dramatic. She can hold her liquor well. Don’t hold back—drink with her!”

And then he turned to Fran, who was hiding behind him, all softness and concern in his eyes, the kind of tenderness he had never once shown me.

At that moment, I felt completely exhausted.

When Dario saw me clutching my stomach in silence, he grew irritated instead of concerned.

“Enough, Clea! I brought you the pills. I came home. So what’s with that sour face?

“Don’t blame me for being distant. What man wants to come back to a stone-faced woman after working all day?

“You’re not young anymore, and it shows. Fran’s a billionaire’s daughter, and even she doesn’t complain like you!”

At that last line, I finally laughed.

It was a dry, sharp sound.

“Fine,” I said.

“Let’s get a divorce. You can go back to your precious little heiress.”