Stephen's Costly Mistake

I pressed myself against the wall, my heart hammering as Stephen's voice drifted through the partially open door of his study.

"Of course I don't regret leaving her," he was saying, his tone clipped and businesslike. "It was a mistake from the beginning."

I froze, my hand halfway to the door I'd been about to clean. The business partner on the other end of the line murmured something I couldn't hear.

"Isabella? She was just a rich girl playing at love," Stephen continued, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "I'm grateful to have escaped poverty through Pearl. She's the one who actually understands what it means to build something from nothing."

The words sliced through me like a blade. I must have made a sound because Stephen suddenly paused.

"Someone's there," he said to his caller. "I'll have to call you back."

I stepped into the doorway, unable to stop myself. Our eyes met across the room—his widening slightly before narrowing into cold slits.

For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. My heart stuttered hopefully, foolishly. But then his expression hardened again, that mask of indifference sliding back into place.

"Isabella," he acknowledged flatly. Then, deliberately, he turned away from me, dismissing my pain as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

---

The rain pounded against the windows like angry fists, lightning illuminating the flooded basement in harsh flashes. Water sloshed around my ankles as I pushed the mop across the concrete floor.

"Faster!" Pearl's voice echoed from the top of the stairs. "The water's rising!"

I glanced up at her silhouette in the doorway, then back at the endless expanse of water. My back ached, my legs trembled with exhaustion. The nausea that had become my constant companion surged again.

"Stephen and I are having dinner in an hour," Pearl called down. "I expect this mess to be cleaned up by then."

Another crash of thunder shook the house. Through the storm's fury, I could hear the soft strains of music drifting from upstairs—Pearl's favorite waltz playing on the phonograph.

My knees buckled suddenly, the mop slipping from my grasp. I clutched at the wall, trying to steady myself, but darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

"Help," I called weakly, my voice swallowed by another roll of thunder. "Please..."

No response came from above. Instead, the music grew louder—Pearl had turned it up deliberately.

I sank to my knees in the cold water, one hand pressed against my stomach. The baby. I had to think of the baby.

"Help," I tried again, but the word barely left my lips before consciousness slipped away.

---

I don't know how long I lay there before strong arms lifted me from the water. Through half-open eyes, I glimpsed Stephen's face above mine, panic etched across his features.

"Isabella!" His voice seemed distant, underwater. "What happened?"

I couldn't answer. My body felt impossibly heavy as he carried me up the stairs, away from the flood.

For a moment, his mask slipped completely. His eyes softened with something that looked almost like... care? His fingers brushed a strand of wet hair from my forehead.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tenderness vanished. His jaw tightened, his grip on me becoming impersonal, clinical.

"Where should I put her?" he called over his shoulder to Pearl.

"Anywhere but our bedroom," Pearl replied coldly. "She's probably faking anyway."

---

I woke to the sound of retching—my own. The servants' bathroom was dimly lit, my reflection in the mirror ghostly pale.

The door burst open behind me. Pearl stood there, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

"Interesting," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Very interesting."

I straightened slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I'm not feeling well."

"No," Pearl agreed, stepping closer. "You're not." Her gaze dropped to my midsection, then back to my face. "How far along are you?"

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"Don't play stupid." Her smile was vicious. "I know the signs. Stephen's child?"

I said nothing, but my silence was answer enough.

Pearl's laugh was brittle. "Oh, this is rich. The great Isabella Nelson, pregnant and scrubbing my floors." She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. "This changes nothing. In fact, it makes things much more... interesting."

From that day forward, my life became a living hell. Longer hours, less food, heavier tasks—all designed to break me down completely.

When Pearl told Stephen about the pregnancy, I watched his face carefully. Shock registered first, followed by something that might have been horror.

"Is it true?" he demanded, his voice strained.

Before I could answer, Pearl stepped between us. "She's lying," she said firmly. "It's just another manipulation attempt. You know how she is."

Something in Stephen's expression shifted—doubt giving way to cold certainty. He looked at me with new disgust.

"Get back to work," he ordered, turning away from me once more.