Jayden Lewis stood there, eyes vacant and his entire body trembling. I had never seen him like this before. In our circle, he was always the most carefree, the one who couldn't care less about rules and authority. Wherever he went, he stood out as the proudest and the most rebellious among us.

In my youthful naivety, I secretly wished more than once. I wished that Jayden would notice me, treat me a bit better. I wished for Selah Martin to stay far away from him, not to return and disrupt whatever connection we had. I dreamt of marrying Jayden Lewis.

If, on any given day, he had smiled at me, just adjusted his attitude a bit, I would have forgotten every grievance and tear, and continued to revolve around him tirelessly, unfailingly. But now, he couldn't let go of me. Now, he was the one pleading with me not to leave. Finally, I mattered to him. Yet all I felt was absurdity, an indescribable disgust and revulsion.

"Lilah..." Jayden reached for my hand, but just as he was about to touch me, his hand froze in the air. His hands were the hands of a spoiled playboy. Once upon a time, mine were as well.

But now, my hands were twisted at the joints, scarred, with calluses where blisters used to be. They weren't pretty anymore, but they were stronger. Like flowers once nurtured in a controlled environment, when taken outside, they don't necessarily wilt away.

Dragging my suitcase into the airport terminal, I suddenly felt a discomfort in my lower abdomen. Perhaps the heated argument earlier had taken too much of an emotional toll. Or maybe my body was just too worn out from the stress of recent days. As a warm sensation rushed through me, my vision blurred, and the world seemed to spin. Suddenly, I collapsed softly to the floor.

In my final moments of consciousness, I heard several voices calling my name, all jumbled together. But soon, all the sounds disappeared, leaving a silence as still as a frozen lake.

When I opened my eyes again, the stark white of the surroundings pierced my vision. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the beeping of machines surrounded me. Instinctively, I tried to touch my abdomen, but a gentle hand softly stopped me: "Miss Rivera, don’t worry, the baby is fine."

"And you are?"

I stared blankly at the middle-aged woman before me. Her features were ordinary, but her eyes were kind. Her clothing seemed a bit out of place, and her English was spoken with a noticeable accent. I vaguely felt as though I had seen her somewhere before, but couldn’t immediately place her.

"Mr. Rivera has been informed," she said, smoothing the blanket over me, "and he’s on his way here."

I nodded, as my muddled mind slowly cleared. Mr. Rivera... Could it be him? We had agreed, no more meetings, no further entanglements.

Yet, here I was, pregnant, unknowingly breaking those unspoken rules. I knew nothing of Mr. Rivera’s background, but from his attire and lifestyle, it was obvious he came from a world I couldn’t even imagine. That morning after everything, as he dressed to leave, he casually asked if I wanted to join him in the future.

Given my circumstances at the time, following him seemed like the best option. But I refused. I no longer wanted to be someone who relied on others. He didn’t make things difficult for me when I turned him down; he even offered me some money, which I refused. He saved my life, and a night spent together seemed like enough to settle our debts.

For the next three months, I didn’t see him again. I dealt with hardship and learned how to survive on my own, how to be frugal. I learned to read people, shedding my spoiled and thoughtless ways. During the toughest times, I cried and regretted things. There were moments when I could barely move and thought about going back to Moises Rivera. But in the end, I stood my ground.

Relying on a man once meant a lifetime of being at a disadvantage. The Rivera family's financial decline meant I was no longer a privileged daughter. Returning to him with a Victorian-era mindset would only ensure a future of dependency. But I was determined not to live like that again.

After Miriam had taken care of me, ensuring I had some water and food, I drifted back into a restless sleep. Even in my dreams, I couldn't escape the presence of Mr. Rivera.

In the dream, he sat with an effortless elegance on the living room sofa, lighting a cigar with a small torch. I was led in by a housekeeper and stood there for what felt like an eternity before he finally glanced up at me. "Lilah Rivera," he said.

"Mr. Rivera..." I faltered.

His eyes were always distant, almost indifferent—like staring through a mist that never fully cleared. He was physically close, yet it felt as if an ocean separated us.

In the dream, after he called my name, silence ruled until the cigar burned out, leaving me drenched in sweat. My belly had grown noticeably larger, yet my body remained thin and frail. I could barely remain upright.

As I started to wobble on my feet, he finally spoke, "Who gave you the nerve to secretly carry my child, Lilah?"

"Mr. Rivera, I didn’t..." I begged. "I took the medication you gave me. You can even check the security cameras."

I was desperate to defend myself, but he seemed uninterested in believing me. He lazily waved his hand, signaling the bodyguards to escort me out.

"Mr. Rivera, please... don’t..." I cried out, pleading with him until I woke from the dream in tears.

When I finally opened my eyes, still groggy, I found myself whispering "Mr. Rivera" under my breath.

"What nightmare has rattled you so much?" came a low, soothing voice. "You were crying like a little girl."

Through my blurred vision, I saw a handsome face, distinctly European yet with amber eyes. His English was heavily accented, but his voice was calming and rich.

He was dressed in a finely tailored black suit with peak lapels, sitting beside my bed, using a handkerchief to gently wipe away my tears.

The scene felt surreal, yet strangely calming. I stared at him, momentarily forgetting my tears. "Mr. Rivera?" I asked, confused.