“Rachel, look what I brought you—your favorite strawberry mousse.”

He entered the kitchen, eyes flickering with a trace of suspicion as he watched me chopping.

He moved closer, trying to embrace me as he always had, but the touch I once found comforting now churned my stomach.

I sidestepped, pointing at the knife in my wet hand. “I’ve got water on me. Don’t want to get you wet.”

Daniel froze for a second, then quickly recovered, lips curving into a fond smile.

“I’ll put the cake away then. Be careful with the knife, don’t hurt yourself.”

He placed the cake in the fridge, then returned, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

His breath brushed against my neck, carrying a perfume scent that wasn’t mine.

It was Olivia’s favorite fragrance—“Diva Icon.”

My stomach lurched, bile rising, though I forced my voice to remain calm.

“Did you pick up the report from the hospital today? What did the doctor say?” He pressed closer, almost as if testing me.

“I did. Everything’s fine.” I kept my voice even, hiding any cracks.

“Good.” He kissed my cheek softly, his tone dripping with affection.

“Our daughter will grow up healthy and strong.”

I stayed silent, chopping faster, each slice cutting through his false tenderness.

Sensing my coldness, he tightened his hold, his voice probing: “Rachel, what’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?”

“No.” I turned off the faucet, faced him with an emotionless gaze.

“Just tired.”

He studied me closely, suspicion flickering in his eyes, before finally loosening his grip and cupping my face.

“Pregnancy is exhausting. Eat dinner and rest early. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping for clothes—for you and the baby.”

His performance was flawless. If I hadn’t overheard the truth with my own ears, I might have fallen into his lies again, willingly stepping into his trap.

At dinner, I stared at the table full of dishes, feeling only nausea.

Daniel kept piling food onto my plate, playing the part of a perfect husband.

“Eat more. You’re eating for two now.”

“This fish soup is good for pregnant women. I had Mrs. Zhang make it especially—try some.”

Looking at his concerned face, I almost laughed.

Here was a man plotting to kill me and my child, yet urging me to eat more at the dinner table—such hypocrisy, such cruelty.

I set my chopsticks down, meeting his gaze with clear, unshaken eyes.

“Daniel.” I called his name like I would a stranger’s.

“Hm? What is it? Are you not feeling well?” He froze, then his face shifted to anxious concern, setting down his chopsticks and taking my hand.

“Do you love me?” I pulled my hand free, staring straight into his eyes, searching for the slightest flicker.

He paused, then smiled, reaching for my hand again—though it carried no warmth.

“Silly girl, of course I do. If I don’t love you, who else would I love?”

“Then…” I withdrew my hand once more, my gaze colder still.

“Do you love our child? Even if she’s a girl?”

Daniel’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, a flash of unease in his eyes. He hadn’t expected me to ask that.

But he recovered quickly, his tone firm. “Of course I do. Boy or girl, our baby is our treasure. I even said on social media that she’s my little princess.”

Yes—little princess. A princess in name only, someone he could sacrifice at any time.

I didn’t press him further. I lowered my head and pushed at the rice in my bowl. It tasted like sand—dry and flavorless.

Through Daniel’s “devoted husband” performance at dinner, I chewed on nothing but cold hatred.

That night, I lay in bed with my back to Daniel, my body stiff as stone.

He curled around me from behind, his hand slipping into my pajamas with practiced familiarity, settling over my flat belly.

“Was the baby good today? Did she kick Mommy?” The intimacy in his voice made my skin crawl.

I went rigid, a wave of disgust crashing over me. I slapped his hand away and turned over.

“I’m tired. I want to sleep.” I shut my eyes, unwilling to look at his false face.

He pressed close again, aggrieved. “Rachel, what’s wrong with you today? Did I do something?”

I kept my eyes closed and said evenly, without a trace of emotion, “No. I just don’t feel well.”

Silence stretched behind me so long I thought he’d fallen asleep.

In the dark, he sighed softly, like a considerate husband. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I was thoughtless. The first trimester is tough—more sensitive, moods all over. I shouldn’t have upset you.”

He wrapped his arms around me again, but this time his touch was light, careful, as if I were something fragile.

“Sleep. I’m right here.”

I didn’t move, letting him hold me while breathing in that faint perfume on his skin—the scent that belonged to Olivia.

I spent the night sleepless beside him, a vast abyss yawning between us.

Early the next morning, Daniel prepared breakfast as usual and saw me out the door.

Before I left, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, the picture of tender farewell.

“Rachel, be careful on the road. Come home early.”

I looked into his gentle eyes and felt only ice.

“Be careful on the road.” From his mouth, those four words were a knife in my chest.

He told me to be careful, while arranging the very “carelessness” that would kill me.

I didn’t go to the office. Instead, I took a cab to a private club Ethan Blake had sent me.

Ethan was already in the suite.

He wore a sharply tailored black suit, tall and poised on the sofa, a cup of tea in hand.

Three years had made him even more restrained and self-possessed, an aura of life-and-death authority between his brows that inspired fear and respect.

Simply by sitting there, he radiated power.

“Mr. Blake.” I crossed over and sat opposite him.

He lifted his gaze to me, pausing briefly before it settled on my still-flat belly.

“Pregnant?” His voice was low and magnetic, free of excess emotion.

“Mm. Three months.” I touched my stomach. She was my life—and the fuel for my revenge.

He set down his cup and leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the table, his eyes sharp enough to cut through anything.

“Daniel’s moving against you?” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

“Yes.” I told him everything I’d heard in the hospital hallway the day before—

Olivia’s pregnancy and the planned “car accident,” every detail a knife scraping across my heart.