He Sent Me to Prison, Then Lost It Kneeling Before My Pregnancy Test

There’s a saying in high society: Cross whoever you want, but never Rowan Dye. She’s not just a cold-blooded psycho who killed her own parents—she’s also under the protection of Miles Chase, a math prodigy. At a wedding reception, a guest once muttered under their breath that Rowan didn’t deserve Miles. She beat them so badly they were sent straight to the hospital. Miles smiled indulgently. “Be good. Don’t get your hands dirty next time.” That one sentence alone bankrupted the person’s family and forced them to their knees to apologize to Rowan. So when Miles turned her in for embezzlement and murder, claiming he was upholding justice, everyone was absolutely floored. When the police arrested Rowan at her office, she was still clutching a pregnancy test. It was the child they had both wanted for so long. Flashbulbs popped all around her as a crowd swarmed in, pointing fingers and whispering behind their hands. “Rowan’s been crazy since she was a kid. At six, she drove her own mother to hang herself—then stayed alone with the body for three whole days and nights!” “That’s not even the half of it. She cursed her grandfather into his grave, killed her father, and now even her husband couldn’t take it anymore and called the cops on her!” “Someone like her deserves to go through life unloved.” Rowan stopped dead in her tracks next to the woman who’d spoken those last words. She turned and stared at the stranger, her dark, hollow eyes sending a chill right through them. “What gives you the right to say Miles doesn’t love me?” Rowan said. “He promised he’d take care of me for the rest of my life.” The woman shot back without thinking. “He was just scared of you! He’s been lying to you this whole time!” Miles, lying to her? Rowan refused to believe it. Not unless she heard it with her own ears and saw it with her own eyes. She turned to the police. “I need to go home first.” Before they could protest, she added, “According to procedure, you have to search my house for evidence anyway.” The officers finally relented. Rowan rushed home, desperate to find Miles. She had to know if someone had threatened him, forced him to set her up. But before she could even step through the door, she heard it—soft, breathy moans drifting from inside. Miles, who had always treated her with cold indifference, was holding a woman’s hourglass figure in his arms, pressing soft, tender kisses to her forehead. That woman was Zara Dye—her father’s illegitimate daughter, the half-sister with no blood tie to her, and one of the very people who had driven her mother to suicide. Zara had her arms wrapped around Miles’s neck, giggling and clinging to him. “Miles, you’ve suffered so much all these years, hiding by Rowan’s side. We never would’ve found enough evidence to report her for murder without you.” Miles brushed the damp strands of hair from Zara’s temple. “We survived the orphanage together as kids. I have to protect you. I won’t let you become her next victim.” “What about Rowan?” Miles froze for a second, then answered, his voice flat and indifferent. “Rowan’s paranoid and controlling. She flies off the handle for no reason at all. A total basket case. How could I ever love someone like that?” But on their wedding day, Miles had told her, clear as day: “Everything you’ve done was just to protect yourself. I love how strong you are. I love how possessive you are of me. Other people’s opinions will never change how I feel about you.” And now he was calling her a basket case. Rowan stumbled backward, refusing to believe it. He never loved her. All those sweet words had been nothing but lies. She gripped the fabric over her chest, her breaths turning fast and shallow. Grief crashed over her like a tidal wave, pulling her under completely. In a daze, she was dragged back to that basement where sunlight never reached. Her mother, a once-dazzling singer, had been locked up there like a caged bird by that monster. She was even forced to wait on his parade of mistresses. Rowan had never once seen the sun from the day she was born. When she was six, her mother held her close and whispered gently to her. “Once we get to heaven, the pain will finally be over.” But the bitter pill she slipped into her mouth tasted awful. She spat it right out. Her mother clutched her and sobbed. Eventually, she rocked her to sleep, then in the dead of night, she pulled the bedsheet free and tied it around the headboard. ‘I’ll trade my life so you can go see the sun tomorrow.’ She looked at Rowan one last time, then wrapped the sheet around her neck and choked to death. For three days, nobody came. The stench of the decaying body became so unbearable that the neighbors finally called the police. Her mother’s body was taken away, and Rowan was admitted to the hospital, diagnosed with severe autism. It was Miles who saved her. Everyone assumed Rowan fell madly in love with Miles, the star math prodigy at Stanford University, three years ago. Nobody knew the truth: when she was six, a little boy who brought meals to his mom at the hospital would stop by her ward every day just to say hi. “I’m gonna marry you someday and take care of you forever, Rowan.” That little boy’s bright smile eventually blended into the reserved, cold-mannered young man he’d become. Rowan fell hopelessly, irreversibly in love with Miles. For seven years, she loved him clumsily and with everything she had. She learned to cook for him, donated huge sums to arrange exchanges with world-renowned mathematicians, and flew him all over the country to take his mind off his stress. Miles slowly softened from his initial resistance. He would wipe sauce from the corner of her lips. When she had a fever, Miles would stay up all night at her bedside, sponge her down, and soothe her to sleep. During her episodes, he’d even let himself get hurt on purpose just to hold her back and keep her from harming herself. She truly believed Miles had fallen in love with her. But the truth was, every tender moment had been nothing but a performance. Miles had done it all for Zara. She was exhausted. She… she didn’t love Miles anymore. Rowan spoke to the police, her voice hoarse. “Could I have my phone back?” The officer nodded. “Of course.” Under their worried stares, Rowan dialed the number her grandfather had made her memorize long ago. Beep… beep… “Hello?” Rowan drew a shaky breath, her voice trembling. “I… I’m Gordon Dye’s granddaughter. Can you take me away from here?” A long silence stretched on the line, then a low voice answered, “Yes. I’ll come get you in seven days.”