HIS HEIR - HER REVENGE

CHAPTER 5 – A Fragile Hope

IVY

It started with a strange feeling.

Nothing too dramatic — just little things. The smell of coffee made me nauseous. My body felt heavier, slower. I cried at a commercial about a lost dog. At first, I thought it was just stress. Too much sleeplessness, too much silence in this golden cage Damian called home.

But deep down, I think I already knew.

The morning I finally took the test, my hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I sat on the bathroom floor, counting seconds, staring at the white stick like it might explode. When the faint pink line appeared, my chest went tight — then warm — then terrified.

Pregnant.

I pressed a hand against my stomach. The world spun a little. A small, broken laugh escaped me, half joy, half disbelief. A part of me wanted to cry, another part wanted to run to him. Maybe this would change things. Perhaps this would soften him. Maybe love wasn't impossible, even for someone like Damian Rafe.

God, how naive I was.

That morning, I made breakfast for him. I know — stupid, right? But it was all I could think of doing. Something normal. Something kind. The kitchen staff watched me like I'd lost my mind when I told them to go. I just wanted to feel like a wife, not a possession.

When he came downstairs, he paused, surprised. "You cooked?"

I tried to smile. "Well, I tried. I didn't poison anything."

His eyes flicked to the table — toast, eggs, coffee, all arranged like a peace offering. He didn't sit. "You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

He stared at me for a long time, unreadable as always. Then, quietly, "Why?"

The question hit me harder than I expected. I swallowed. "Because you do a lot for me. For my mother. I just wanted to—"

"Repay me?" His tone was sharp but not cruel.

"No," I said quickly. "I just wanted to do something for you. Without a reason."

Something flickered across his face then — confusion, maybe. Or pity. He finally sat down, picked up a fork, and started eating. My heart soared at that tiny, stupid gesture.

I sat across from him, pretending not to stare.

"You should eat too," he said without looking up.

"I'm not hungry."

"Still, you should." His voice softened a little.

It wasn't much, but it was something. He was trying. Or maybe I was just desperate to believe that.

For the next few days, things felt lighter. He didn't yell. He didn't slam doors or leave without a word. He even asked about my mother once, and when I said she was improving, he nodded, like it mattered to him.

I started hoping again.

Every night, I told myself he was changing. That maybe, somehow, love could grow in this strange, frozen space between us. I'd walk past his study door, hear him talking to people on the phone, all business and ice — and I'd think, maybe he doesn't know how to love yet.

One evening, I gathered all my courage and told him the truth.

He was in the library, reading, his tie loosened. I stood in the doorway, twisting my fingers. "Damian?"

He looked up. "Yes?"

"I need to tell you something. It's important."

He set the book aside. "Go on."

I hesitated. My throat went dry. "I'm pregnant."

The silence that followed was endless. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just stared at me like he was trying to decide if I was serious.

Finally, he said, "You're sure?"

"Yes. I took a test."

His expression didn't change. "I'll have my doctor confirm it."

That's all he said. No smile. No touch. Just cold efficiency.

I nodded, trying not to let the tears fall. "Okay."

He went back to his book like nothing had happened.

That night, I lay in bed wide awake. I kept waiting for him to come to me, to say something, anything. But he didn't. The next morning, the doctor arrived—tests, scans, polite smiles. I tried to stay calm.

When the doctor left, Damian stood by the window, his back to me. "It's confirmed," he said quietly.

I waited for the rest. For warmth, for happiness. But it never came.

Instead, he said, "You'll take the prescribed vitamins. Nothing more."

That was it.

No congratulations. No emotion. Just another order.

Still, I clung to the most minor things — the way he sometimes lingered in the doorway when I spoke, the way he brushed his hand against mine once, accidentally. I told myself he cared. He didn't know how to put it into words.

It was pathetic, really.

A few weeks later, everything shattered.

It was late. I was walking past his study, planning to ask him if he wanted tea — something stupid again. The door was half open, voices drifting out. I recognized Victor's voice, low and smooth.

"She's obedient now," Victor said. "The vessel is useful. You were right to choose her."

My breath caught. The vessel?

Damian's voice came next, calm and cold. "Useful, yes. But easily broken. Keep an eye on her. We can't afford mistakes."

Something inside me cracked — slow and deep. I didn't move, didn't breathe.

Victor chuckled. "Still, she's beautiful. Shame you don't plan to keep her."

Damian's reply was soft. Beauty fades. Purpose doesn't."

I stumbled back, covering my mouth. The walls seemed to close in. My chest burned, my stomach twisted. The baby. Me. A vessel. That's all I was.

I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt the tears hit my hand.

I ran to my room and locked the door. My knees gave out, and I sank to the floor, shaking so hard I could barely breathe. I pressed my palms against my stomach, whispering, "I won't let him take you. I swear I won't."

The image of him — the man I'd started to believe in — vanished completely. What was left was something monstrous.

I don't know how long I stayed there. Hours, maybe. The candles burned out. The house grew silent.

By morning, I wasn't crying anymore.

I stood in front of the mirror, my reflection pale and hollow-eyed. But behind the exhaustion, something new was there — a steadiness I hadn't seen before.

I touched my belly gently. "He thinks I'm just a vessel," I whispered. "Then he'll learn what a vessel can do."

I smiled faintly, though it felt wrong, fragile. "You're not his heir," I murmured. "You're mine."

And at that moment, something inside me hardened — not cruelty, not hate, but resolve.

If Damian Rafe saw me as a pawn, then I would learn how to move like a queen.

No more begging. No more hoping.

Just quiet plans.

And a promise I would never break — that one day, I'd walk away from him for good.