The Weight of Broken Promises

Bella grabbed a cab and tailed Ada in silence.

At the hospital, she stopped at the doorway, the scene inside slicing through her chest like glass.

She bit down hard on her lip, forcing herself not to make a sound.

Steven's son lay hooked up to an IV. His little face was pale, fragile, heartbreakingly weak.

Steven was pacing, agitated. "What the hell is wrong with you people? You can't even treat a kid's fever?"

The doctor at the bed—Bella knew him. Jeffrey. Steven's closest friend.

"Steven, the kid's got a cold and a fever from a chill," Jeffrey snapped. "If you can't handle it, don't rip into my staff.

"And seriously, I don't get you. Didn't you say you'd pay that woman off once the kid was born? Now one sniffle and you're dragging me here? What if Bella finds out?"

Silence stretched before Steven finally spoke, voice rough, worn down. "What do you expect me to do? He's just a kid. Every time I try to send Ada away, Ollie cries nonstop. I can't let him cry forever, can I?"

Jeffrey let out a sharp laugh. "Please. Is it really the kid who can't let go, or is it you? You know damn well which one."

Steven groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Don't start. I've only ever loved Bella. But my family needs an heir. You have to keep this from her—I won't let her get hurt. And Ada... she gave me a child. I can't just throw her aside."

Right then, the door creaked open. Ada slipped in, tears streaking her face.

"Steven, it's all my fault. I didn't take care of Ollie. He spiked a fever after you left last night. He cried for you the whole time, but I didn't want to disturb you and your wife..."

Steven pressed a hand to the boy's burning forehead and sighed, his anger fading.

He pulled Ada against him. "Don't cry. I'm not blaming you. This is on me—I haven't been a good dad."

Ada clutched his shirt, fingers tracing his chest. "I know I'll never compare to your wife, but I can't stand seeing our son like this..."

Steven's eyes hardened. "No one gets to make my son suffer. And you—take care of yourself. Look at you, crying your eyes out."

He reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek. The softness of it cut straight through Bella's chest.

Her fists clenched so tight her nails carved crescents into her palms—yet she felt nothing.

Or maybe nothing could ever hurt worse than this.

The rain was coming down hard when Bella left the hospital.

Soaked and half-numb, she drifted through the storm like a ghost. Water blurred her eyes, but it couldn't wash off the shame burning under her skin.

By the time she reached Beaufort Corp, her heels had torn up her ankles—blood mixing with rain on her skin.

The receptionist froze, then sprinted over. "Ms. Beaufort! What happened? Should I call Mr. Rocca? He'd freak if he saw you like this."

Bella didn't flinch. Of course they thought Steven still loved her. Everyone did.

But love like his? Built on lies.

She brushed past the receptionist, voice rough. "I'm fine. Rain caught me off guard. Grab me a clean outfit."

She slid her black card into the girl's hand and locked herself inside the nearest meeting room.

The second the door shut, Bella crumbled.

She thought those photos had numbed her. But seeing them in real life—Steven, Ada, and that kid playing happy family—ripped her wide open.

Her sobs filled the room, raw and messy. She wanted to scream. How could he be the same guy who once promised forever and now raise a kid with someone else?

A knock snapped her out of it.

The hallway was empty. Just a stack of clean clothes, her black card, and a warm cup of tea sitting at the door.

Underneath the cup: a handwritten note. [Ms. Beaufort, don't worry. I didn't call Mr. Rocca. I know you don't want him to worry.]

Bella's jaw clenched. She ripped the note to pieces and dumped it in the trash.

Clothes in hand, she changed in the restroom. A little while later, the Beaufort heiress was back—flawless, untouchable.

She marched into the CEO's office and threw herself into work. No breaks. No distractions.

Steven kept texting. She didn't open a single one.

By evening, drained and cold, she headed home—ready to pack up and disappear first thing in the morning.

But the second she stepped inside, a kid's voice called out from the living room—and there was Ada, standing like she belonged.