The billionaire's unexpected bride

Trials of the Heart

Chapter Five:

The air in the hospital room was suffocating, laden with tension that crackled like an impending storm. Andrew's mother, strode back and forth across the tiled floor, her stilettos clicking sharply with each step. Her face was a portrait of fury and disbelief, lips pursed so tightly they could have been etched into stone.

Finally, she whirled around, pointing an accusatory finger at my mum. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence.

"Your daughter," she spat venomously, "is a deceitful, scheming woman! She abandoned her marriage and now expects us to believe this maid is carrying my son's child? This is nothing but a ploy to climb out of her lowly position!"

My mum spine straightened, her gaze icy and unwavering. "Be very careful, ma’am," she replied, her words deliberate and cold as steel. "My daughter may not be here to defend herself, but I will not stand by while you insult her. And remember, your son is just as responsible for this child as she is!"

Andrew’s mum face darkened, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward Andrew. "Andrew," she demanded, her voice trembling with rage, "did you... have you had any relations with this girl?"

Frozen in place, I felt as though the walls were closing in on me. My hands instinctively rested on my stomach, as if shielding the life growing within me from the chaos.

Andrew hesitated, running a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. He let out a weary sigh before admitting, "Yes, Mother. It happened... on the wedding night. I was drunk, and it happened."

His words struck like a thunderclap, reverberating in the still air. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst, and my throat tightened, rendering me unable to speak.

Andrew’s mum cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and rage. She took a step back, shaking her head as though trying to wake herself from a nightmare. "You fool!" she hissed. "Do you even understand what you’ve done? Do you comprehend the scandal this will bring?"

"Mother, I—" Andrew began, but she silenced him with a sharp wave of her hand.

"Enough! I don’t want to hear excuses. Doctor," she barked, turning to the man hovering nervously near the door. "Conduct a DNA test immediately. I want proof that this child is Andrew’s!"

The doctor shifted uneasily, his hands fidgeting with the clipboard he held. "Madam," he began cautiously, "it’s not safe to conduct a paternity test during the early stages of pregnancy. It’s best to wait until later in the term or after the baby is born to avoid any risks."

Andrew’s mum glare could have melted steel, but after a tense pause, she relented with a begrudging nod. "Fine," she snapped. "But the moment it’s safe, I want that test done!"

She stormed out of the room, dragging Andrew behind her, leaving an oppressive silence in her wake.

Weeks later, the test was conducted, and the results were undeniable: Andrew was the father of my child.

We found ourselves in a courtroom as the judge delivered his ruling. The air was heavy with anticipation, every word he spoke echoing in the cavernous space.

"Given the circumstances," the judge declared, his voice firm, "the court has decided to deny the petition for divorce. The couple will remain married and cohabitate for one year to allow for potential reconciliation. After this period, the matter may be revisited."

Andrew’s mum shot to her feet, her face a mask of disbelief. "This is outrageous!" she exclaimed. "My son cannot be bound to this—this sham!"

The judge silenced her with a sharp look. "Madam, this is the court’s decision. If you disagree, you are welcome to file an appeal. Until then, the order stands."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, she sank back into her seat, her fury palpable but restrained.

Living in Andrew’s house was a daily trial. Andrew’s mum made no attempt to hide her disdain for me. She relegated me to the servants’ quarters and insisted I earn my keep despite my condition.

One morning, she thrust a mop into my hands with a sneer. "Don’t think being pregnant with my grandchild earns you any special treatment," she said coldly. "You wanted this life? Then work for it."

I swallowed my pride and took the mop, silently enduring her cruelty. I spent my days scrubbing floors and polishing furniture, my body aching but my resolve unbroken.

One day, as I cleaned Andrew’s room while he prepared for work, a photograph on his bedside table caught my eye. It was of a young girl, perhaps seven or eight, her lively eyes and radiant smile captivating.

"She’s beautiful," I whispered, unable to hide my admiration.

Andrew stiffened, his hands faltering as he adjusted his tie. He turned abruptly, his expression darkening as he strode over and snatched the photo from my hands.

"Don’t touch that," he snapped, his tone harsher than I had ever heard.

Startled, I stepped back, my foot catching on the edge of the bed frame. I stumbled, falling hard onto my back. A sharp, searing pain tore through my abdomen, and I cried out, clutching my stomach.

"Amelia!" Andrew’s voice panicked as he dropped to his knees beside me, his anger replaced by fear. His hands hovered uncertainty, his face pale.

"My baby," I whispered through tears, the pain overwhelming.

Andrew’s expression turned stricken. "Stay here," he said hurriedly. "I’ll get help."

The world blurred and darkened around me, the pain pulling me into unconsciousness.

I awoke to the sterile scent of the hospital and the soft beeping of monitors. My mother sat beside me, her hand clasping mine tightly.

"Amelia," she said softly, relief flooding her voice. "Thank God you’re awake."

"What happened?" I croaked, my throat dry and raw.

"You fainted," she explained. "Andrew brought you here. The doctors say the baby is fine, but you need to rest."

Before I could respond, the door opened, and Andrew stepped in. His usual aloof demeanor was replaced by something softer—concern, maybe even guilt.

"Are you alright?" he asked hesitantly, his gaze avoiding mine.

I nodded weakly. "Thank you for bringing me here."

He hesitated, his hands buried in his pockets. "It was the least I could do," he murmured. After a long pause, he added, "I didn’t mean for you to fall. I’m... I’m sorry."

For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a side of Andrew I hadn’t seen before—one capable of kindness. But the moment was shattered by the sharp, familiar voice of the Andrew's mum echoing down the hallway.

"Andrew! Stop wasting time there. We need to talk about this mess!"

His expression hardened once more, and without another word, he turned and left.

As I lay there, I couldn’t help but wonder: was there more to Andrew than the cold, distant man I had come to know? Or was that glimpse of compassion just an illusion?