At Eight Months Pregnant, I Chose To Raise My Baby Without Her Vampire Father

Under the hot water, standing beneath the shower, a chill crept down my spine.

I'd expected to break down. To charge upstairs the moment I realized Clara was hiding in my house, drag her out, slap her across the face, and demand to know what the hell Adrian thought I was. But when the moment came, I was more composed than I'd imagined.

Maybe it wasn't that I'd gotten calmer.

Maybe it was because my heart had already died once.

I took a really long shower, letting the sound of the water muffle the nausea and rage churning in my chest. When I finally turned off the shower and stepped out in my robe, the hallway was silent again, as if nothing had happened.

But the moment I walked into the master bedroom, my feet stopped.

The sheets were new.

But no fresh sheets could mask the scent of what had happened in the air.

The cashmere throw at the foot of the bed was half on the floor. A pillow had clearly been moved. Even the scented candle I'd left on the nightstand that morning had been shifted to the other side.

I stood in the doorway, fingers slowly tightening on the sash of my robe.

Clara hadn't just been in this house.

She'd been in my bedroom.

Maybe while I was out meeting with my lawyer, she and Adrian had been in this bed.

My stomach lurched violently. I grabbed the doorframe to keep from throwing up right there.

Instinctively, I pressed my hand to my belly and waited several long seconds before the wave of nausea passed.

I looked down at my swollen stomach and remembered what the doctor had said. Carrying a vampire's half-blood child was already dangerous for a human, especially in the third trimester. Too much emotional distress or physical shock could trigger serious complications. And a half-blood's vitality far exceeded that of a normal fetus — if the baby became agitated inside the womb, the strain on the mother would be even worse.

But didn't Clara claim she was pregnant too?

If she were really carrying Adrian's child, how could she be reckless enough to be doing all this?

Doubt flickered through my mind, but I didn't have time to think it through.

The bedroom door opened softly, and Adrian walked in.

He'd changed into loungewear and was carrying a cup of warm milk, his expression as gentle and attentive as ever — as if everything today had been nothing more than my imagination.

"You haven't dried your hair yet?" He set the milk on the table and reached for my towel. "You'll catch cold."

I didn't move. I let him stand behind me and towel my hair dry.

In the mirror, we looked like any ordinary, loving couple. An attentive husband, a quiet wife. Warm light, a steaming cup of milk on the table.

Only I knew that beneath this layer of tenderness, everything had already rotted through.

I spoke softly. "Did you take care of things upstairs?"

Adrian's hands paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed as though nothing had happened. "Yeah, one of the servants knocked over a vase. I had them clean it up."

Another lie.

I watched him in the mirror, then asked, "Are you feeling okay? You seem restless today."

"I'm fine." He looked down at me, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"You just seem distracted." I lowered my eyes, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. "Is something going on at the company?"

Adrian was quiet for a few seconds, then set the towel down and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

His embrace was still familiar — that faintly cool temperature, his body enveloping mine completely. Once, that would have been enough to break my resolve. Now, all I felt was a chill crawling up my spine, goosebumps prickling my skin.

"Emily." He rested his chin on my shoulder, his voice low, as if holding something back. "I'm sorry."

I looked at him in the mirror and said nothing.

He held me tighter, as though something had finally cracked — a sudden wave of guilt hitting him all at once, his breath unsteady. "I've been so busy lately. I've been neglecting you, and the baby. I know you haven't been happy. That's on me."

I almost laughed.

So he did know he'd been neglecting me.

It was just that this little moment of self-awareness came far too cheap.

I didn't pull away. I simply asked, "What's really going on with you today?"

He was silent a moment, then let go of me and turned to the leather wallet on the nightstand. He pulled out a black bank card and pressed it into my hand.

"Keep this." His voice was low and warm, coaxing. "The PIN is your birthday. Buy whatever you want from now on — don't worry about saving. Didn't you mention a jewelry set you liked? And the nursery — redecorate it however you want."

I looked down at the card in my palm, and something in my chest dropped.

This wasn't the supplementary card linked to our joint account.

This was a card I'd never seen before.

I looked up, deliberately hesitant. "Why are you suddenly giving me this?"

Adrian reached out and touched my face. And there it was — genuine guilt, faint but unmistakable, in his eyes. "Call it making up for things."

"Emily, you've been with me all these years. I shouldn't have let you suffer."

The irony was almost too much.

He was keeping a mistress. Hiding assets. And now trying to compensate me with a card, as if that would ease his conscience.

I slipped the card into the drawer and gave a small smile. "Alright then. I won't hold back."

Seeing me accept it, Adrian visibly relaxed. He leaned down, kissed my forehead, then bent to touch my belly and murmured something about getting some rest before heading to his study.

The moment the door clicked shut, the room went perfectly quiet.

And the smile on my face faded away, bit by bit.