"Clara, if you see something you like, just say the word. I'll buy it for you," Bethany said, holding Clara's hand with a motherly warmth Phoebe had never witnessed before.

"Mom, why are you so kind to Clara but always cold and sharp with Phoebe?" Nathan asked with a sigh. "Phoebe is your daughter-in-law, and she's carrying your grandchild. Can't you treat her better?"

"Because Clara doesn't stir up trouble and turn you against me like Phoebe does," Bethany snapped, her face darkening.

"Mom, I've told you many times, Phoebe never—" Nathan tried to explain, but Bethany had no patience to listen.

"Enough, Nathan," she cut him off. "We came here to shop and enjoy ourselves. Can't you stop mentioning Phoebe? It's killing the mood."

"Alright, alright. I won't bring her up," Nathan said, raising his hands in mock surrender. With a light smile, he added, "Today, I'm just here to serve Her Majesty and Her Royal Highness. I'll pay, I'll swipe my card, and I won't say another useless word."

The phrase "Her Royal Highness" pierced through Phoebe. Once, she believed she was the only princess in Nathan's heart. Even if he had betrayed her now, at least the love he once gave her had felt irreplaceable.

But it was never irreplaceable. Anyone could be his princess.

She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry. Without a word, she turned to leave.

At that moment, Nathan saw her.

"Phoebe? What are you doing here?" His face turned pale, and his eyes darted toward Clara, betraying his discomfort. "When... when did you get here?"

Phoebe met his gaze calmly. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? Didn't you say you had urgent work at the office?"

"Nathan came to meet a client here. What's the problem?" Bethany interjected, her tone sharp and impatient. "You're pregnant. Stop being so suspicious and focus on taking care of the baby."

"Mom, stop blaming Phoebe," Nathan said, trying to soothe her. "If she doesn't feel secure, it's because I haven't done my job as a husband. If I'd given her enough reassurance, she wouldn't need to be suspicious."

As he spoke, he gently cradled Phoebe's hand and placed it over his heart. "Phoebe, I really did come here for business. The client is upstairs. If you don't believe me, I'll take you to meet him."

His eyes held hers, deep and unwavering. "When we married, I promised to love and cherish you forever. I swore I'd never lie to you, and I meant it. I will never break that promise."

Phoebe wondered how he did it—standing there in front of his mother, his wife, and their unborn child, speaking such bold-faced lies without a trace of guilt. Wasn't he afraid of the consequences?

"Then who is she?" Phoebe asked, turning her eyes toward Clara.

"She's Nathan's cousin," Bethany said smoothly. "Her family moved abroad years ago, so you wouldn't know her." With a sudden smile, she added, "By the way, Nathan, Clara just returned from abroad and doesn't have a place to stay. Why not let her live at your place for a while?"

She paused deliberately, then turned to Phoebe with a saccharine smile. "Phoebe, you don't mind, do you?"

"Mom, stop joking around. Phoebe needs to focus on her pregnancy, she doesn't have time to take care of a cousin," Nathan said, noticing the change in Phoebe's expression. He was quick to refuse on her behalf.

But the next second, Phoebe smiled. "I don't mind. Let her move in."

And just like that, Clara moved in.

That evening, the housekeeper came in again with a tray. The same three things as always: soup, walnuts, and grapes.

Phoebe had had enough. With a swift motion, she knocked the tray to the floor. "How many times do I have to say it before you understand? I don't want to eat these!"

Nathan rushed over, his face tense as he pulled her into his arms. "Phoebe, are you okay? Did the soup burn you?"

She shook her head, saying nothing.

Seeing that she was unharmed, he exhaled in relief. His gaze turned cold as he glared at the housekeeper. "If she doesn't want to eat it, don't force her! How useless can you be? You can't even take care of a pregnant woman properly!"

"Phoebe, are you having trouble with your appetite? Why don't I make you some soup?" Clara sauntered over, her voice sweet and artificial. "Tomato and beef brisket, nourishing and good for the baby."

Phoebe didn't bother to glance at her. With her eyes lowered, she said quietly, "I'm tired. I'll go rest. You all go ahead and eat."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.

She fell into a heavy sleep, but the sharp ring of a phone shattered the silence, dragging her awake. Frowning, she reached for the phone. She was sure she hadn't set an alarm.

As confusion set in, a message flashed across the screen. It was from Clara, as sharp and mocking as ever.

[Hey, fatty, dare to come to Nathan's study?]

Phoebe stared at the message for a long time before finally pushing herself out of bed and heading to the study.

The door was slightly ajar. As she approached, the sound of Clara's soft, teasing laughter drifted out.

"Master, stop working, pay some attention to me."

"Cut it out," Nathan's voice was low and harsh. "This is my home, not somewhere else. What if Phoebe sees us?"

"She's already asleep. She won't know," Clara said as she caught his hand, guiding it down her body. "Master, I miss you so much. I can't wait any longer..."

His breath grew heavier. With a swift motion, he pushed her onto the desk and reached for her nightgown. But then, he hesitated.

"Wait," he said, his tone shifting. "This nightgown... it looks familiar. Isn't this Phoebe's?"

Clara smiled seductively, pressing his fingers to her lips. "That's right. It's hers. But she can't fit into it anymore."

A low chuckle escaped him as his hand tightened around her slender waist.

At that moment, Phoebe remembered. Before her pregnancy, Nathan had always loved her slim figure. Whenever things got heated, his hands would cling to her waist as if he couldn't let go.

But now, with her body changed, heavy with their child, he was gripping someone else's waist instead.

He said he cared about her. Yet here he was, just as easily, wanting another woman.

"Ah... Master, I love you so much. Do you love me?" Clara moaned softly, the words exaggerated and sweet. Through the narrow gap in the door, she must have spotted Phoebe outside. Her arms curled around Nathan's neck as she pushed further. "Do you love me more, or do you love Phoebe more?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to," he said coldly. "Of course, I love Phoebe the most. She's my wife, my one true love."

Hearing that, Clara's eyes burned with resentment. She cast a venomous glance toward the door, unwilling to concede defeat.

"But tell me this, Master," she whispered. "Do you enjoy doing me more, or Phoebe?"

Nathan laughed softly, his movements growing rougher. "Obviously, it's you. A body like yours is made for carnal pleasure."

A triumphant smile spread across Clara's face as her voice rose in satisfaction. Meanwhile, outside the door, tears blurred Phoebe's vision.

'Why am I crying?' she wondered bitterly. 'You let Clara move in, didn't you? Wasn't it because you wanted to see whether Nathan still had any feelings left for you? Wasn't it because you wanted to know if he would dare to touch his mistress under your roof? Well, now you have your answer. Congratulations, Phoebe. You finally know the truth.'

Phoebe fell seriously ill. A relentless fever burned through her, and no matter what she ate, it came back up.

"A bunch of useless doctors," Nathan snapped. "I paid you all this money, and you can't even bring down a simple fever?" If the butler hadn't been holding him back, he might have struck someone.

"Madam is pregnant," the doctor explained, his face tight with helplessness. "Most medications aren't safe, and your parents specifically instructed us to avoid using medicine. Right now, the best approach is through dietary therapy to strengthen her body, but she can't keep anything down."

Nathan carried a bowl of porridge to her bedside. He took her hand, his usual coldness replaced by something raw and pleading. "Phoebe, please. For me, for our child, eat something. Just a little, okay?"

Phoebe turned her face away without a word.

In just a few days, she had become a shadow of herself. Her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, and her once graceful frame had thinned alarmingly. Only her swollen belly remained—a jarring contrast to the rest of her frail body.

"Phoebe, what's wrong?" Nathan's voice trembled as his eyes reddened. "What happened? Can you tell me?"

She wanted to know, too. What had gone so wrong? How had their perfect, happy marriage turned into this?

Why had the man who once loved her so deeply become a liar the moment she got pregnant?

Who could give her an answer?

"Phoebe, I'm begging you," he said, his composure cracking as he pulled her into his arms. "If you'll just eat, I'll do anything you want. I can't lose you or our child. If anything happens to either of you, I'll lose my mind."

Phoebe forced herself upright. He was right—she couldn't die now. If she did, until her last breath, she would still be his wife.

She no longer wanted that. She wanted to leave him.

Suppressing the nausea rising in her throat, she picked up the bowl and took a sip of the porridge.

Seeing her finally eat, Nathan's face lit up with relief. "Phoebe, you're eating! What else do you want? I'll have the kitchen make it for you—no, I'll cook it myself!"

But before his words had fully settled, Phoebe bent forward and vomited everything back up.

Her body was too weak. Even when she forced herself to eat, nothing stayed down. Within a minute, it all came back out.

Left with no choice, Nathan took her to the hospital for observation.

But even after being admitted, her condition remained dire. The attending physician, brows furrowed with worry, gave him a grim assessment. "Mr. Marshal, your wife is not in a condition to continue the pregnancy. If she does, both mother and child will be at serious risk."

"I recommend delivering early," the doctor continued. "Although it's still risky at this stage, the safest window is after six and a half to seven months. We can attempt a cesarean section then."

"Will that endanger Phoebe?" Nathan's voice was tight with panic.

"Our recommendation is based on her current health," the doctor said. "Once the baby is delivered, we can focus entirely on treating her without worrying about complications from the pregnancy."

"Then do it," Nathan said without hesitation. "Get that little brat out of her as soon as possible. How dare he make Phoebe suffer like this? I'll make him pay for it when he grows up—I swear I will."

A nearby nurse, moved by his words, leaned toward Phoebe and whispered, "Your husband loves you so much. Most men, when they come in with their wives for checkups, only care about the baby. And that's if they bother to come at all. Many women have to go through this alone."

"But look at your husband," she added softly. "He cares about you more than anything. He's willing to deliver the baby at six months just to spare you any more pain."

Phoebe smiled faintly but said nothing.

Pregnancy was supposed to be a sacred, joyous experience, the miracle of bringing new life into the world. But why, then, was it filled with so much suffering—for her and for so many others like her?