Chapter 4

The nights that followed were a special kind of torture. Every evening, Branson would bring her a cup of "calming" tea, his eyes full of feigned love and concern. Every evening, she would pretend to drink it, then pour it down the sink when he wasn't looking.

And every night, around midnight, he would slip out of their bed and go to Chandler's room.

Alyssa would lie awake, listening. Sometimes, driven by a self-destructive urge, she would creep out of bed and stand barefoot in the cold hallway, listening at Chandler's door.

The sounds were a torment. She would imagine his hands on Chandler's body, his mouth on hers. She would imagine him whispering the same words of love to Chandler that he whispered to her. She pictured him carrying Chandler to the bathroom afterward, gently washing her, an intimacy he had once reserved only for Alyssa.

The images, the sounds, the betrayal-they drove her to the edge of madness. She would return to her own bed, her body trembling, her mind screaming.

But as the days bled into one another, the screaming stopped. The pain became a dull, constant ache. The madness cooled into a quiet, chilling calm. She was just counting down the days.

Then, Chandler missed her period.

A home test was positive. A hospital visit confirmed it. Chandler was pregnant.

That night, Branson knelt before Alyssa, his face a picture of earnest devotion. He cradled her hands in his.

"It's done, Alyssa," he said, his voice soft. "She's pregnant. Once the baby is born, she'll be gone. I promise. She will sign away her rights, take the money, and disappear from our lives forever."

He painted a beautiful picture of their future, just the two of them, free from his grandfather's tyranny, free to be happy again.

Alyssa said nothing. She just mentally crossed another day off her calendar. Only three weeks left.

With the pregnancy confirmed, Branson's attitude toward Chandler grew even colder in public. He treated her like an inconvenient piece of furniture. Chandler, for her part, played the role of the meek, grateful surrogate perfectly. She stayed in her room, quiet and unobtrusive, a ghost in the house.

The date of her first prenatal check-up approached.

One evening at dinner, Chandler spoke up, her voice barely a whisper. She looked at Branson, her cheeks flushed, her eyes downcast.

"Mr. Davis... my appointment is on Friday. I was wondering... if you might be able to come with me?"

Branson's face hardened. "I'm a busy man. I'll have my assistant take you. Don't ask for things that don't belong to you."

He turned his back on her, his attention immediately shifting to Alyssa, his expression softening into one of gentle affection. He placed a piece of fish on her plate, completely ignoring the woman carrying his child.

Chandler's eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip, rose from the table, and fled the room, her shoulders shaking.

"I need to use the restroom," Branson said to Alyssa, a moment later.

Curiosity, or perhaps a morbid need for more pain, made Alyssa follow him. She rounded the corner into the main hallway and froze.

Branson had Chandler pinned against the wall. His anger was gone, replaced by a surprising tenderness. He had one hand pressed flat against her still-flat stomach.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

Chandler bit her lip, tears glistening in her eyes. "I just... I don't want to be a bother to you and Mrs. Davis."

"Are you jealous?" he asked, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His hand slid from her stomach, down over her hip, and disappeared under the hem of her skirt. "I can't be too nice to you in front of her. You know that."

Chandler gasped, a soft, breathy sound. She half-heartedly pushed against his chest. "Branson..."

The use of his first name was a blatant provocation. A claim.

"The baby wants to see its daddy, too," he murmured, his voice husky as he pulled her closer.

Their heavy breathing filled the hallway. Their shadows merged into one.

Alyssa felt like she had been plunged into ice water. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The man who claimed to love her, the man who had just sworn Chandler would disappear, was seducing her in the hallway of their home.

He had promised. He had sworn. He had lied.

She backed away silently, retreating to her room. The cold calm she had carefully constructed shattered, leaving only a raw, searing pain. She pulled out her phone and looked at the hidden album.

It was filled with pictures of a small, smiling boy with Branson's eyes. Her son. Leo.

The reason she had left Branson five years ago.