Chapter 3 Two Lines
Elena: POV
The memory hit me like a slap as I stared at my pale reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hand trembling against my flat stomach.
Every time. Every single time after he'd taken me—on the bed, against the wall, over his desk—Julian would hand me a small white pill and a glass of water.
"Take it," he'd say, his voice flat and businesslike, already buttoning his shirt. No tenderness. No concern for whether I was sore or scared. Just that pill, held between his long fingers like a command.
The first time, I'd been stupid enough to ask why.
His answer had been brutally simple: "Because I don't want complications, Elena. You're not ready to carry my child." A pause, those steel-gray eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Actually, you'll never be ready. You're not worthy of bearing a Sterling heir."
The words had gutted me then. They still did now.
I'd taken the pill every time after, swallowing it down with water that tasted like ashes.
I couldn't stay in that penthouse. The walls felt like they were closing in, the luxury suffocating. I grabbed my coat and left, keeping my head down as I passed the doorman.
The CVS on Third Avenue was bright and anonymous. I wandered the aisles in a daze until I found myself in front of the family planning section.
The pregnancy tests were arranged in neat rows, each box promising answers I wasn't sure I wanted.
I grabbed the Clearblue Digital—the most expensive one, because even panicking, I couldn't shake Julian's voice in my head: 'If you're going to do something, do it right.'
The teenage cashier barely glanced at me, too absorbed in his phone. I paid cash and shoved the box deep into my purse.
Back in the bathroom, I sat on the cold marble floor, the test stick clutched in my shaking hands. The digital display blinked: Testing...
Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds.
At two minutes and thirty seconds, the screen flickered.
At two minutes and forty-five seconds, words appeared.
Pregnant 3+ weeks
My legs gave out completely. I slid down the wall, that single word destroying and rebuilding my entire world at once.
I was carrying Julian Sterling's child. When the hell did I get pregnant? I always took the pill after we slept together. Every damn time. Oh shit... wait. Over a month ago. He left so quickly afterward, and then I got distracted with something and just... forgot.
The man who hated me. The man who thought I'd drugged and trapped him. The man who loved Victoria Astor and would never, ever love me.
A sob tore from my throat, then another, until I was crying so hard I couldn't breathe. Years of suppressed pain finally breaking through.
God help me, I wanted this baby. I'd dreamed of having Julian's child since I was a foolish teenager watching him from the servants' quarters. But not like this. Not when he could barely stand to look at me. Not when our marriage had an expiration date.
What kind of father would he be to a baby he never wanted? What kind of life could I give this child in our cold, loveless arrangement?
But the thought of not having this baby—of ending the only piece of Julian I might ever truly possess—was unbearable.
I sat there on that bathroom floor until the tears dried on my cheeks. Until something inside me shifted, hardening into resolve.
I would keep this baby. And I would make Julian love me—not for my sake, but for this child. For the tiny life inside me that deserved a father's love, a real family.
Even if it killed me trying.
I spent the late afternoon cooking with manic energy. Filet mignon with red wine reduction—his favorite. Roasted asparagus. Garlic mashed potatoes. The apartment filled with rich aromas that made my stomach turn.
Around six, I pulled out my phone and typed: 【I made dinner. Will you come home tonight?】
I stared at the word "home" for a long moment before hitting send. As if this sterile penthouse was a home. As if he'd ever thought of me as someone to come home to.
The message showed as read immediately. No response.
By seven, the food was getting cold. By eight, I'd changed into jeans and a cream cashmere sweater, trying to look casual. By nine, I'd accepted he wasn't coming.
Why would he? I was just the convenient body he used when he needed release.
I grabbed my coat and opened the door, thinking maybe a walk would clear my head—
Julian stood in the hallway, his hand raised as if about to knock.
We both froze.
God, he was beautiful. Even after three years, the sight of him stole my breath. He'd loosened his tie, the burgundy silk hanging rakishly around his throat.
His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath that clung to his broad shoulders.
Brown hair slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. Those steel-gray eyes—sharp enough to cut—met mine, and for just a heartbeat, I saw something flicker. Surprise? Concern?
Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar cold mask.
"You came," I whispered.
His gaze swept over me, lingering on my face. "You asked me to."
Before I could respond, he stepped forward. His hands gripped my waist, lifting me effortlessly as he kicked the door shut. I gasped, arms wrapping around his neck instinctively as he carried me to the sofa.
"Julian, I—"
He silenced me with his mouth, the kiss deep and demanding. My back hit the cushions, and he followed me down, his weight pressing me into the leather.
"I thought you weren't coming," I managed when he pulled back, his lips moving to my neck.
"You wanted me here." His voice was rough against my skin, his hands already sliding under my sweater. "So I came home to fuck you."
