While others in our circle suffered through loveless unions, Ian Delgado and I were paraded as the golden couple. But tonight, the facade crumbled. The crowd waited with bated breath, phones raised, eager to capture my humiliation.
I arched my back against the steel pole, a reckless smile playing on my lips. The bass pounded through the floor, but my focus stayed locked on Ian. Through smoke and flashing lights, his expression was thunderous.
His misery was the only thing that brought me joy.
With a sharp tear, I ripped the hem of my skirt. Fabric gave way, exposing the long line of my legs. The room shifted. Men leaned forward, gazes predatory.
Ian snapped.
He stormed the stage, tore off his jacket, and wrapped it around my waist. He turned to the crowd, eyes sweeping the room like shards of ice.
"Unless you want to lose your eyes," he snarled, "look away. Now."
I leaned against him, chest heaving, and tilted my head to catch his eye. "Isn't this what you wanted? To see me humbled?"
Years ago, when the Delgado empire crumbled, the family shattered. Owen Delgado surrendered to despair. Everyone else fled like rats from a sinking ship.
Only I stayed.
I remembered the night Ian stood on the rooftop edge, staring into the abyss. Wind whipped at his clothes.
I screamed until my throat was raw, finally voicing the love I'd buried for years.
"Ian! Even if the whole world rejects you, I want you!" I sobbed. "Please, just come down."
But love didn't pay debts. My tutoring income was a drop against the ocean they owed. So I made a choice. I hid the truth and returned to the nightlife.
Pole dancing paid well. Twenty thousand a night.
That money kept the loan sharks away. It moved us out of the moldy basement. It was the capital Ian used to rebuild his empire.
I was careful. Scrubbed my skin raw every night to wash away smoke and cheap perfume before crawling into bed. But secrets rarely stay buried.
He caught me during a client meeting. Our eyes met across the crowded room—mine filled with shame. I expected disgust. Instead, he knelt before me that night, kissing the bruises on my knees, swearing he'd spend his life making it up to me.
Promises are just pretty lies.
Back in the present, Ian's grip tightened until I thought my wrist might snap. He dragged me out of the hall, throwing me into the car.
"Grace!" he roared, veins bulging. "Why didn't you refuse? Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?"
He leaned in, face inches from mine. "For years, people have whispered. They laugh that I married a nightclub girl. And now you drag those memories into the light?"
His hand clamped around my jaw, thumb grinding against my lip. "Or were you always this cheap?"
I stared at him, unblinking. He looked just as hysterical as the day I caught him cheating.
The nightmare didn't end at the banquet. Ian brought Harper home.
Right in front of me, he undressed her, pressing gentle kisses to her lips—intimacy he hadn't shown me in years. Harper pulled back, shooting me a triumphant smirk. She reached toward the bedside table.
There, on velvet, rested a delicate porcelain doll. It wasn't just an ornament. It had been fired from the ashes of our daughter.
Harper's fingers closed around it. With a casual flick, she shoved it off the edge.
Crash.
The sound shattered my world.
My heart seized. Air vanished. I dropped to the floor, scrambling toward the debris. Grey ash scattered across hardwood, mixing with jagged shards.
"Baby..." A guttural whimper escaped my throat.
I clawed at the mess, trying to gather the dust. Sharp ceramic sliced my palms, but I felt nothing except the screaming void in my chest.
Ian shoved Harper aside, panic breaking through. He grabbed my wrist, eyes wide. "Grace! Stop!"
I looked down, dazed. In my frenzy, I'd sliced my wrist on a large shard. Blood poured out, pattering onto the floor, turning grey ash into dark crimson.
The room spun. Darkness crept in, and I slumped into a familiar embrace.
When I opened my eyes, antiseptic filled my nose. Ian clutched my hand like a lifeline.
"Grace," he whispered, voice thick. He sounded relieved. Happy, even.
"We have another chance." He pressed my hand to his forehead. "You're pregnant. It has to be a girl. She came back to find us."
Bile rose in my throat. I shifted away, dodging Ian's hand before it could graze my skin.
How dare he speak my daughter's name?
A soft, pitiful sob broke the tension. Harper stood in the doorway, barefoot, her eyes rimmed with calculated redness. She didn't speak—just turned and fled down the hallway.
Ian didn't hesitate. He chased after her without a backward glance.
I cradled my swollen belly, letting a single tear trace my cheek. This baby is mine, I vowed silently. Yours alone. Nothing to do with Ian.
Once the pregnancy was confirmed, Ian played the doting husband to perfection. A cruel mimicry of the days when we were truly in love.
He showered me with limited-edition porcelain ornaments, oblivious to the irony—the porcelain doll I tended to day and night was the only vessel left for my daughter's soul.
My morning sickness was severe. Ian turned down projects worth over a hundred million to stay home and cook for me. Slowly, my flat stomach began to round with life.
He would stare at my belly, grinning like a fool. "Finally. I'm going to be a father."
If he hadn't caused my darling's death, if Harper's perfume didn't cling to his shirts, I might have been stupid enough to believe he still possessed a shred of sincerity.
As my due date neared, Ian brought a heavily pregnant Harper into our home. He settled her in the room right next to mine.
He frowned, feigning conflict. "Grace, the child she carries is also mine. I can't abandon my own flesh and blood."
He pushed a document toward me. "Don't worry. The lawyers drafted this—only your child will be my heir."
I watched him sign, a hollow performance of loyalty. I didn't fight it.
"It's okay. I understand," I said flatly. "Let her stay. As long as she doesn't disturb me."
But peace was never part of Harper's plan.
That night, moments after finishing the soup I'd prepared, she doubled over in agony. Blood soaked through her white dress, stark against the fabric.
"If Sister Grace hates me for stealing Ian's love, let her kill me," Harper choked out, tears streaming. "I have no complaints... but the baby is innocent..."
I stood frozen by the performance. Before I could speak, Ian shoved me aside with brutal force.
"If anything happens to Harper's baby," he snarled, scooping her into his arms, "that bastard in your belly dies with it!"
My lower back collided with the table's sharp corner.
Agony exploded in my abdomen. Warmth gushed between my legs as amniotic fluid pattered onto the floor.
"Ian!" I screamed, but he didn't turn.
Another contraction seized me. My hands trembled as I dialed emergency services.
"Help me..." I gasped. "I'm in labor."
At the hospital, chaos reigned. Every available obstetrician was diverted to Harper's ward.
I lay alone on the icy operating table. It felt like a bulldozer grinding my bones to dust with every contraction.
Only after Harper's son was delivered did the staff remember the dying woman next door. My labor was difficult; the fetus was in distress. Countless needles pierced my skin to keep me alive.
Just before darkness took me, I glimpsed through the glass—Ian holding Harper's child, tears of joy streaming down his face.
The baby's one-month celebration was a joint affair.
Ian invited only his inner circle—men who clapped him on the back for securing both a son and a daughter, praising the "harmony" between his wife and his mistress.
Harper cradled her son, unable to mask her triumph as she approached me.
"Grace," she whispered, dripping venom. "What does that little bastard of yours have to compete with my son? Kneel and beg, and I might consider being a merciful stepmother."
I ignored her. Smiling, I adjusted my daughter's blanket and walked to Ian's side.
The room quieted for toasts. Amid applause and blessings, I pressed the remote in my hand.
The giant screen flared to life.
Harper's face drained of color.
