Chapter 2 You Actually Think You Are Worthy Of Having My Child

On the screen flashed messages from Arabella's mother, Khloe.

"Arabella, what's really going on between you and Owen? Have you slept with him or not?"

"If not, get Owen drunk and slip into his bed. Use what you've got-your stunning looks and that killer body. You need to secure your future, darling. Get pregnant with his child. That way, he'll think twice before he even dreams of leaving you."

"And remember, even if things go south and he divorces you, having his child means you won't walk away empty-handed. Think about the child support."

Arabella's hands trembled, barely able to hold the phone. She dared not meet Owen's eyes, her heart thumping wildly with fear. There was no doubt he had read the messages by now.

Khloe's words felt like screaming that everything that happened the night before had been Arabella's plot.

Khloe might lack in many areas, but when it came to undermining her own daughter, she was a seasoned pro.

"You actually think you're worthy of having my child?" Owen's question cut through the tension.

Suddenly, a box was thrust toward Arabella, who caught it instinctively. Glancing down, her stomach churned at the sight of birth control pills. A piercing pang of anguish twisted inside her.

Owen was a savvy entrepreneur who had carved a niche in the gaming industry. At the tender age of 21, he had seized the helm of the Peak Group, propelling it into the stratosphere of a trillion-dollar enterprise.

His prowess wasn't limited to the boardroom. He was also a seasoned race car driver for Momentum Racing Club, an ace archer boasting a level eight ranking, and skilled enough to pilot planes and delve into oceanic depths. To the world, he was the epitome of unattainable perfection-a paragon admired from afar but never truly reached.

In sharp contrast stood Arabella, a woman rendered mute by an accident, seemingly with nothing to contribute to Owen's glittering world. The only gift she possessed was her deep, unwavering love for him-a love that he regarded with indifference.

"You think you'll have my child one day? Fuck no. You and your whole rotten family need to wake the hell up!" Owen declared, his voice laced with a chilling venom that stripped the color from Arabella's cheeks.

Ever since marrying Owen, Arabella had cherished the dream of motherhood, envisioning a child who would embody Owen's finest traits. Whether a son or a daughter, she believed this child would be a testament to their love, a miniature beacon of Owen's brilliance that filled her with immense joy.

Now, crushed by Owen's harsh dismissal, that dream crumbled into dust, revealing it to be nothing more than a fragile, naive fantasy.

Owen's deep-seated disdain toward Arabella was unmistakable, his words a clear declaration that he would never let her have his child.

Holding the box of pills in her trembling hands, the weight felt monumental, as if each pill was a heavy stone anchoring her to this reality.

With a heavy heart, Arabella ingested the small pill that held the immense power to obliterate any possibility of her and Owen sharing a future child.

As Arabella did so, Owen's icy, piercing stare bore into her, amplifying the gravity of her action.

The pill was unbearably bitter, a cruel echo of the burgeoning bitterness within her soul. Her eyes watered and her nose stung with the imminent threat of tears. She quickly bowed her head, seeking refuge in her own sorrow.

Owen's presence loomed large, his silence only breaking once he was certain the pill had been swallowed. "Get in the car. We're going to the hospital, and this time, you don't get a say. You'll do exactly what I tell you," he commanded, his voice as cold as his gaze.

Arabella's fists clenched tightly, the emotional torment tangible in the air around her.

...

The hospital they arrived at was a sanctuary of privacy and excellence, with pristine facilities that stood in sharp contrast to the turmoil Arabella felt.

Owen disappeared into Aria's ward upon their arrival, leaving Arabella in the hands of a doctor who seemed to have been impatiently awaiting her for a blood draw.

Arabella's fear of pain was profound, intensified by her delicate, elusive veins that always complicated such procedures. Her anxiety soared as the doctor struggled, each attempt to locate a vein sending a fresh wave of dread through her.

The doctor's approach was brusque, each poke sharp and careless, pushing Arabella to the brink as she fought back tears and winced in pain.

Catching sight of Arabella's discomfort, the doctor's expression twisted into one of scorn. With a condescending cluck of her tongue, she huffed, "Ms. Butcher, you're seriously spoiled! All this drama over a little needle? Just think of poor Miss Jenkins, left in a vegetative state by your barbaric father!"

The staff at the boutique hospital were notorious for their preferential treatment, doling out care based on the social standing of their patients. They were well-acquainted with Aria's plight and keenly aware of Owen's dismissive attitude toward Arabella.

Thus, each time Arabella walked through their doors, she was met with veiled sneers and cold, mocking smiles. On more than one occasion, under the guise of struggling to locate a vein, they pricked her skin multiple times-each jab sharper and more painful than the last.

Mute and isolated, with Owen indifferent to her suffering, Arabella bore these indignities in silent resilience.

After enduring yet another painful blood draw, Arabella wasted no time making her way to Aria's ward.

Owen had expressly forbidden Arabella's entry into Aria's ward, so she hesitated at the doorway, peering through the crack in the door. There, Arabella glimpsed Owen seated by Aria's bedside, his expression one of tender devotion, his attention undivided as he watched over her.

At that moment, Arabella's heart ached with the realization: Owen truly loved Aria.

Throughout their three-year marriage, Owen had devoted more of his time and heart to the hospital room than to Arabella, his own wife.

Indeed, were it not for the necessity of Arabella's blood donations for Aria, it seemed Owen would have severed all pretense of their marital connection, never coming home.

No matter Arabella's efforts or sacrifices, Owen's gaze remained icy and distant toward her.

Arabella had come to the harsh understanding that her existence seemed relegated to serving as a mere donor for Aria, a living atonement for mistakes she was never responsible for.

A sharp pang of pain clenched Arabella's heart as she stood outside the door like a bystander in her own life. Envy and sorrow mingled tightly within her as she watched the tender scene before her, underscored only by the soft beeps of the life-sustaining machines.

Aria lay motionless, her complexion ghostly, resembling a serene figure locked in an eternal slumber.

There was a time when Aria was pure sunshine-restless, vibrant, and full of life, leaving happiness in her wake wherever she went.

Yet now, Aria's vitality had been extinguished. For three agonizing years, she had been confined to this stillness, a tragic shadow of her former self, all seemingly because of Kristian's reckless actions.

Owen's heart was a tangled mess of hatred and remorse. He despised Kristian and Arabella with a burning intensity, but the weight of his own guilt crushed him even more. If not for his own decisions, Aria might have been spared this cruel fate.

Clutched in his hand was a golden whistle, intricately engraved with the initials "O&A."

This small token had been with Owen since the day of the accidents-Aria's and his own. Awakening in the hospital, he had discovered the whistle gripped tightly in his fist, though the reasons for its presence or his visit to Moonstone Boulevard eluded him.

All Owen could piece together was a fragmented memory of needing to meet someone critically important, with an urgent task at hand. Yet, everyone he questioned had confirmed the same heart-wrenching detail-throughout that fateful period, Aria had been his only companion.

Since childhood, Aria and Owen had been inseparable, their souls stitched together by a deep and lasting thread.

On that fateful day, under the serene expanse of Moonstone Boulevard, Owen had intended to reveal his heart to Aria at the perfect moment. What unfolded instead was a sequence of unforeseen, heart-wrenching events.

Even now, the significance of the whistle eluded Owen. Why had he chosen such an object? Did it hold a deeper meaning than he realized?

His musings were abruptly shattered by a series of insistent knocks.

The door creaked open, revealing a doctor whose grim expression spoke volumes. "Mr. Murray," she began, her voice a blend of professionalism and concern. "We've completed the blood work. Ms. Butcher's results indicate she's slightly anemic. It's imperative she follows a regimen of ample rest coupled with light exercise to ensure the blood's quality."

Owen, whose height and commanding aura often left a lasting impression, listened intently. The doctor, momentarily distracted, found herself captivated by his striking features-his presence a vivid portrait of both strength and vulnerability.

"Where is she now?" Owen's voice, tinged with urgency, broke through the doctor's reverie.

"She... She has already gone," the doctor replied, hesitance coloring her tone. "She threw quite a tantrum during the procedure."

Hearing this, Owen's brows furrowed tightly. Turning his gaze toward where Aria lay resting, his expression softened, a tender light touching his eyes. "When will Aria wake up?"