Chapter 4 That Womb-for-hire

Beside the expansive indoor swimming pool, Waylon lounged on a leather sofa tucked into the shadows. One arm rested lazily over the armrest, the other holding a half-full glass of wine.

Though his face was concealed in the dimness, his presence radiated an unmistakable chill-detached, dominant, and laced with silent warning that kept others at a respectful distance.

A slim, hooded figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the soft glow. "Mr. Holden."

Waylon, who had looked nearly asleep, cracked open his eyes with a slow blink at his subordinate's sound, the movement sluggish and indifferent.

"Mr. Holden," the subordinate said again, "I questioned Oliver and the rest. They confirmed Mrs. Holden hasn't been with anyone since that night-the baby is yours. And there's more. Oliver admitted Mrs. Holden had nothing to do with the setup. She's innocent. Actually, she's been abused repeatedly-by Oliver and his girlfriend, Khloe Anderson. Do you want me to handle them on her behalf?"

Waylon looked up from the pile of photographs Jaxton Andrews had just handed over. His eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Holden?"

Jaxton shrank beneath Waylon's chilling stare. "Since she's married to you, Mr. Holden, I figured it was only proper to call her Mrs. Holden," he muttered, his voice unsteady.

"Oh?" Waylon's eyes remained locked on him. "You keep repeating that title. For a second, I thought that womb-for-hire had actually bought your loyalty."

Jaxton's knees gave a visible wobble, and he steadied himself against the sofa. In that moment, he realized-Waylon saw Adeline just as a vessel, not someone worth defending.

Waylon flicked the photos aside and leaned back into the sofa, shutting his eyes without another word.

Taking the cue, Jaxton turned to leave-only to pause when a woman in a bikini sashayed past him and slid into the seat beside Waylon, droplets of water clinging to her bare skin.

"Mr. Holden, why not join us and enjoy yourself a little?" She leaned into Waylon, her damp body pressing close as she toyed with the buttons of his shirt.

The woman had spent considerable effort getting into this exclusive gathering, and now she wasn't about to waste the moment. With a playful tilt of her head, she smiled. "People say you're always by yourself. Why so gloomy?"

"You tell me," Waylon replied flatly.

The woman mistook his answer for interest. "I heard your mother passed away when you were still a kid, and you didn't return to the Holden family until five years ago. That must have been really tough, huh? Growing up without a mom couldn't have been easy. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here."

At this, Waylon stood and extended a hand toward her. "Come here."

The woman offered a sugary smile and reached out, accepting the invitation.

"Mr. Holden-wait, no!" she shrieked as Waylon suddenly kicked, sending her flying straight into the pool.

...

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the streets of Kranbu as a black car moved steadily down the avenue, the trees lining the road casting flickering shadows through the windows.

"I'm only stopping by to see a patient. There's no need for you to tag along," Adeline said from the back seat, her voice calm.

"That's not possible, Mrs. Holden," Lillian Ellis, the tall maid acting as Waylon's stand-in at the wedding, replied. "You've got a baby on the way, and Mrs. Ruby Holden gave me strict orders to look after you."

Adeline didn't push it. At least the maid assigned by Ruby was preferable to the others in the Holden household, considering Ruby's concern for her pregnancy.

The car came to a stop outside a hospital. Lillian stepped out first and helped Adeline out. Together, the two walked into the hospital. Overhead, the dome lights gleamed, casting a clean glow across the polished floor.

As they rounded a corner, a cautious voice floated from a room nearby. "Mr. Holden, please go easy with the whip next time, or you'll injure yourself badly again. Just let me patch you up, alright?"

Adeline's heart skipped a beat at the mention of "Holden." Her attention snapped toward the source, unable to resist a quick look.

The door hung ajar, offering a partial view of the room. Inside, a masked doctor worked with visible tension, hands trembling as he dressed a wound. His patient remained seated, relaxed.

From Adeline's position, she couldn't see the patient's face-only the sharp crease of tailored black trousers and a pair of crossed legs that suggested complete ease. One hand rested on the armrest, long fingers splayed open, the skin between thumb and forefinger split with a deep, angry gash.

Even as the antiseptic touched the wound, the patient showed no reaction, no twitch, no wince. He might as well have been carved from stone.

Adeline held her breath and inched closer, her heart beating faster. She couldn't be sure, but something about this patient's presence felt too familiar. Could it be Waylon?