She Told Me to Raise Her "Illegitimate Child," So I Took Off My Ring and Went North

3:14 AM. The oak library was still permeated with the scent of expensive coffee, but the drink itself had long since gone cold.

I stared at the red numbers pulsing on the screen—the real-time feed of the Locke Group on the London forex market. In four hours, the European exchange would open. If I couldn't patch the derivative mismatch caused by Serena's emotional outburst yesterday afternoon by 6:00 AM, the Locke family’s annual financial statement would show a loss massive enough to shake the board of directors.

Serena was likely sleeping soundly, curled up in that king-sized bed twenty meters away—a bed I was forbidden from stepping near. She didn't need to know this; she only needed to slice a piece of blueberry-jam-toasted bread elegantly at the breakfast table, listening to her subordinates assure her that everything was on track.

This is my job—being Serena Locke’s husband, the invisible overhead cost of this grand estate.

My phone vibrated. A coded email. It was Claude, her greedy uncle. He threatened her with a greasy tone, implying he had proof of Serena’s illegal asset transfers last month and demanding more voting power on the board.

I let out a long sigh, rubbing my irritated eyes. If I woke Serena now, she would only look at me with the eyes one gives a pet dog and say coolly, "Jack, handle it. Don't bother me with trifles."

I accessed my private drive and pulled up records of Claude’s unauthorized lending in Seaport over the last three months. I wasn't resolve the conflict for Serena; I was using these meticulously organized "weapons" to conduct a precision strike. I sent a reply to Claude, listing the detailed movements of his offshore accounts, and ended it with one sentence: "If you don't want these sent to the tax bureau, you’d better withdraw your proposal by this afternoon."

The clacking of the keyboard sounded jarring in the dead silence. I felt no thrill of victory, only a fatigue that had seeped into my marrow.

At 11:00 last night, I was supposed to be at the bookstore for that old edition of Chronicles of the North I’d been waiting for. But Ethan, Serena’s "exclusive assistant," called for help. Serena’s major sponsor—a philanthropist known for being a nightmare—was drunk at a gala and demanded to see Serena. Serena was in the closet picking out a gown for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. She heard the noise through the phone and didn’t hesitate: "Jack, go clean it up. I don't want to see that drunk idiot."

I went. I spent two hours at that high-end private club, enduring the old man’s nagging and insults, and even managed a polite smile to smooth things over for his secretary when he nearly threw a drink at me. I knew that project was the centerpiece of Serena’s next quarter; if the old man turned, Serena would lose face.

And she? She had been busy choosing perfume. She didn't even give me a "thank you for your hard work."

Looking at the dawn breaking outside, I set down my water glass. My private phone, which stayed on 24/7, lit up again—data feedback from the PR team regarding a crisis. I calmly drafted the PR statement, polishing every word to ensure Serena wouldn't be questioned.

In this marriage, I am not a lover; I am a shield for Serena. I once tried to mention at dinner that I wanted to go walking in the northern mountains. She just put down her knife and fork, her gaze as calm as stagnant water: "Jack, if I leave the defense supports of the Locke Group, do you think I can still maintain my current status as a respected saint?"

That was one of the few things she’d ever said to me, and it hit the nail on the head regarding my purpose—she needed me, but she didn't need me as a person. She needed a heater—something to provide warmth in the winter, but otherwise hidden inside the walls, so quiet as to not even exist.

I pushed open the study window. Cold air rushed in. The lawns of the Locke estate looked neat in the morning mist—every inch perfect. I had personally supervised the landscaping team last month.

Ink had stained my sleeve while I was handling documents. Looking at my trembling fingertips, I realized I hadn't cared for my own body in a long time. The cramping in my stomach reminded me another night had been spent starving on caffeine. But it didn't matter. In two hours, Serena would come downstairs. She would wear that perfect white cashmere sweater, see the breakfast I’d laid out, nod slightly, and say, "Jack, your tie color is a bit dull today."

I smiled bitterly and closed the repair program.

All crises were averted. The Locke Group’s balance sheet looked impeccable, Serena’s reputation was skyrocketing, and Uncle Claude would keep his mouth shut like a beaten dog.

I had fulfilled my duty as a "good husband." But in this empty estate, I felt like a ghost slowly vanishing, eventually to be buried by the dust of this empire.