Pregnant Mistress Can't Get Away

6. BASTIAN

The moment I step into Vanguard’s mansion, a scream bounces off the walls.

Under normal circumstances, if someone else were in my place, they would have made a run for the sound. They would have done everything to make sure the screamer—who more or less sounds like my sister, Beth—had not caught her hair in the steaming hot straightener again, or that she hadn’t had her hundredth break-up and was having a meltdown right about now, or something else that’s killing her like it does almost every day.

But there is no normal when it comes to the Vanguards. We hate normal. We hate it so much that there’s a desperate need to do something less normal every morning we wake up.

There is no way any sane person could live like this, except, well, me, because I can get through just about anything without flinching. I can even put up with the noise of this hell house for an hour if I have to. Why? Because that’s what I have been raised to do. Because that’s who I am.

“That was beautiful. Thank you,” I say, sarcastic and loud enough for the entire household to hear, before stepping into the living room.

I’m not surprised when I find my father—Bernard Vanguard—sitting at the dining table already, chatting away with the head maid while she pours him his usual cup of coffee. The sight of him ogling a forty-year-old woman’s breasts and the way his fingers subtly slide under the hem of her skirt is enough to make anyone throw up the contents of their stomach.

But when you’re a Vanguard, you get used to pathetic sights like this one.

In fact, this is probably the least repulsive thing I expect to come across while walking down a hallway.

The house is always full of maids running around in tiny short skirts and revealing shirts, and it makes me sick just looking at them. They might have their t**s and ass on full display for the entire world to see and touch, but that doesn’t mean my eyes enjoy seeing it.

I don’t need to see my father f*****g his maid in the kitchen to know that’s exactly what they do when they’re alone together, because I’ve been hearing about it all my life. I don’t need to see why his third wife—my stepmother—hasn’t come down for dinner yet, because I know. I know exactly where she is and how much alcohol it must have taken to knock her out on the bathroom floor. I can smell it in the air even from here; that’s how bad it is.

There are so many reasons why I can’t stand to stay at the Vanguard estate longer than I have to. It’s one of the most unhygienic, immoral, and illogical places on the face of the planet.

“Bastian!”

And of course, there’s my lovely wife, whom I conveniently forgot to mention. Probably because half the time I don’t even remember she exists.

I look up to find her coming down the stairs, and when I say coming down, I mean stomping like an elephant in her usual high heels.

I turn my gaze toward the floor because looking at the red monstrosities on her feet always gives me the urge to burn them along with her whole wardrobe, and I have better things to do.

“Bastian,” she whines again, pouting with those fake lips as if that would make any difference. “Your i***t sister stole my bracelet again. Do you know how expensive that is? My daddy gave it to me on my birthday last year and I—”

I zone her out mid-sentence and walk past her towards the stairs. The only thing I can think of right now is getting out of these clothes and having a nice, cold shower. These clothes feel like they have been on me for over a century; that’s how icky they make me feel. I can’t wait to get rid of them or burn them if that helps my conscience.

“Are you even listening to me?” Madison follows me into our bedroom that I rarely sleep in and huffs as if that would bring me to my knees in front of her. It won’t. Nothing she does attracts me. Nothing she says sounds any more important than dogs barking at trees. “For God’s sake, Bastian. You can’t just ignore me like I don’t even exist. Stop acting like a jerk!”

I stop where I am, and so does she with her unnecessary screaming. But instead of doing what she desperately wants—taking her bracelet matter seriously—I approach the walk-in closet and tug at the knot of my tie.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe you. You’re such an asshole, Bastian. Here I am, your wife, telling you how your family is making my life miserable and you… you don’t even f*****g care. What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you listen to me anymore?”

Now, what should I say to that? That I stopped listening to her a long time ago? That she’s a b***h who only thinks about herself? That she forced her way into this crazy family with the influence of her father, well aware that I never wanted to get married?

Of course, I can say that. But I don’t. If there’s something I’ve learned from Stella, it’s that silence can be much more lethal than words. It pisses people off, especially those with little patience, like every single person in my so-called family.

I sigh, grab a pair of clothes, and head to the bathroom.

But Madison isn’t done. She blocks my path, arms crossed over her chest.

“No. Not before you tell me what’s going on with you? How long are you going to ignore me? I’m your f*****g wife, Bastian, and you hardly even spare me a glance,” she says. Then, as if she’s said too much, she lowers her voice and moves closer, dropping her hand on my chest, stroking it gently. I’m surely burning these clothes now.

“You don’t even come home anymore. We haven’t had s*x in so long. Is that… is that because of the baby? Are you still mad about it? Please, tell me, Bastian. Please, talk to me.”

I almost do. She looks so innocent right now.

But then I remind myself that she’s the woman who did that to Oliver, and before I know it, deeply suppressed anger rises to the surface until I only see hot f*****g red.

“Get the f**k out of my way!” I growl, annoyed, and she staggers backward, her eyes wide with fear.

I push her aside and storm into the bathroom, ignoring the way she keeps pounding and kicking at the door.

Fucking monster!