CHAPTER5
947 Words
Living in the Klin mansion was torture. Every corner held the possibility of running into him – Donald. Her stepson. The man who haunted her dreams.
Grace hurried down the dimly lit hallway towards the kitchen, unable to sleep. It was past midnight, and Charles was far asleep, as usual.
"Sneaking around in your own house?"
She froze. Donald emerged from the shadows, barefoot in sleep pants and a fitted t-shirt. Her traitorous heart skipped.
"I'm getting water," she said stiffly, trying to move past him.
He blocked her path, close enough that she could smell his cologne. "You've been avoiding me."
"What did you expect? We can't... this isn't..."
"Isn't what, Grace?" His voice dropped lower, dangerous. "Tell me you don't think about that night. Tell me you don't remember every touch, every kiss—"
"Stop it!" She backed away, hitting the wall. "I'm married to your father."
He slammed his palm against the wall beside her head, caging her in. "A marriage of convenience. You don't love him."
"That doesn't matter." But her breathing betrayed her as he leaned closer.
"Doesn't it? Because I can't forget you, Grace. I've tried. God knows I've tried." His other hand traced her collarbone, feather-light. "You haunt me."
"Donald, please..." She wasn't sure if she was begging him to stop or continue.
His lips brushed her ear. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you don't want this."
The sound of a door opening upstairs broke the spell. Grace ducked under his arm, fleeing to her room. Her heart pounded as she leaned against the closed door, sliding down to the floor.
This became their dangerous dance over the next weeks. Lingering looks across the dinner table. "Accidental" touches in hallways. Moments of charged silence in empty rooms.
One evening, she found a note in her book: "Meet me in the library. We need to end this tension."
She went, telling herself it was to put a stop to it all. But when she found him waiting, his eyes were dark with desire...
"No," she backed away. "I can't betray Charles."
"You already have," he advanced slowly. "Every time you think of me when he touches you. Every time you avoid my eyes at dinner because you're afraid he'll see the truth."
"I'm his wife!"
"And my father's a ruthless bastard who blackmailed you into this marriage." Donald's face hardened. "Do you think he loves you? Do you think he doesn't have his own agenda?"
Before she could respond, nausea hit her like a wave. She'd been feeling off for days, but this was different.
"Grace?" Donald's anger turned to concern as she swayed.
"I'm fine, I just..." The room spun. She barely registered Donald catching her as everything went black.
=======
She woke to the faint hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital. Her eyelids fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was Charles sitting by her side, his hand wrapped tightly around hers. His expression was soft, almost tender, but something about the intensity in his eyes made her stomach churn.
By the door, Donald stood rigid, his arms crossed as if bracing himself. His face was unreadable, a mask she couldn’t crack no matter how hard she tried.
“You’re awake,” Charles said, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent she couldn’t place. “How are you feeling?”
Before she could respond, the door swung open, and a doctor walked in, clipboard in hand and a bright smile on his face.
“Mrs. Klin,” the doctor began warmly, “we ran some tests to ensure everything was fine after your collapse. I’m pleased to tell you, congratulations. You’re about eight weeks pregnant.”
The words hit her like a thunderclap. Eight weeks.
Her breath caught in her throat as her mind raced. Eight weeks ago, she had been with both men.
She turned to Charles, his face lighting up with a wide, proud grin. “This is wonderful news,” he exclaimed, squeezing her hand. His joy seemed genuine, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else. Calculating. Assessing.
Behind him, Donald took a step closer, his complexion ghostly pale. His lips parted as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
Grace’s mouth went dry, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure everyone in the room could hear it. “I… I don’t…” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“This changes everything,” Charles said, his smile unwavering. “We’ll start planning immediately. A nursery, of course. We’ll find the best specialists to make sure you’re taken care of.” His grip on her hand tightened, almost possessively.
Her stomach twisted, and she struggled to breathe. “Charles, I—”
“You don’t need to say anything right now,” he interrupted smoothly, his gaze flicking briefly to Donald. “What matters is you and the baby. That’s all I care about.”
Donald cleared his throat, his voice low and strained. “Grace…”
Her eyes darted to him, searching for something—anything—but his expression remained stoic. The tension between the three of them was suffocating.
The doctor, oblivious to the undercurrents, beamed. “I’ll give you all some privacy. Congratulations again, Mrs. Klin.” With that, he left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Eight weeks,” she finally choked out, her voice trembling. Her gaze flicked between Charles and Donald, the weight of the situation crashing down on her.
Charles tilted his head, his expression unreadable now. “What’s wrong?”
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