Chapter 4

That guy friend was Ryan, my childhood neighbor. He was two years older than me, like an older brother.

That day, he was just passing by my office and brought me a sandwich. He snapped a picture and posted it. That was it.

But Austin used that single incident to turn the tables on me every time I questioned him.

"You know the truth deep down. If you insist on having this baby, we’ll do a DNA test first."

"A DNA test."

Those words felt like a physical slap in the face.

I was six months pregnant. In all those six months, he had never accompanied me to a single ultrasound. He had never looked at a sonogram. He had touched my stomach less than three times. He always said he was busy, that his startup was trying to secure funding, that things would get better once he got through this rough patch.

I believed him.

Now I understood. He wasn't busy.

He just didn't care.

Because in his heart, he wasn't even sure the baby was his.

I shoved past him, threw open the door, and walked out.

Victoria was standing in the living room, holding a cup of coffee, looking like an elegant painting.

She saw me emerge from the kitchen and blinked.

"Oh, what’s wrong? You look so pale. Is it too hot in the kitchen?" She walked over, reaching out to touch my forehead. "Do you want to sit down? I can have the maid bring you a glass of water."

"No, thank you. I have to go."

I dodged her hand and walked quickly toward the door.

She followed me to the entryway, still smiling. "Get home safe! I’ll definitely book you again."

As the elevator doors closed, I heard Austin’s voice from inside the apartment.

It wasn't loud, but it was crystal clear.

"Babe, don't let strangers like that into our house anymore. They aren’t clean."

"They aren’t clean."

Those words.

I crouched in the corner of the elevator, crushing the cherries Victoria had given me, one by one, in my fist.

The pits were hard, bruising my palms. The skin on my hands tore, and drops of blood mingled with the dark red juice.

When the elevator reached the lobby, the doors slid open.

I stood up, wiped my sticky hands, and walked out of the luxury high-rise.

The driveway was lined with luxury cars—Porsches, Range Rovers, Benzes.

The doorman, dressed in a custom wool coat, looked at me carrying my heavy catering bag with a judging eye, like he was looking at a stray cat that had wandered into a private garden.

Outside, it was snowing.

I stood in the cold, waiting for my Uber.

As I waited, my phone buzzed. A text from Austin.

"Don't overthink tonight. About the baby, we'll talk after it's born. We’ll do a test, and if it's mine, I won't shirk my responsibility."

What a charitable tone. As if saying, "If it’s mine, I might grant you some crumbs. If it’s not, get lost."

The phone buzzed again.

"Don't try to go to Victoria. Her family has serious political connections. You can't afford to mess with them. If you make a scene, you're only hurting yourself."

No wonder.

No wonder he was willing to play the loyal dog in that house. It wasn't because he was poor; it was because he wanted to climb the social ladder.

I was just a wild flower he had plucked along his way up.

He stepped on me, and that was that.