As the Southern Wind Moves On

Gestation: Six weeks The moment I saw those words on the ultrasound report, I froze. Just once—how could I possibly be pregnant? What now? If I tell Maxwell Harrington, will he call off the divorce? No. He'll only think I'm using a child to trap him. I pushed down the heaviness in my chest and shoved the ultrasound report into my bag before stepping out of the hospital. Outside, a sleek black Maybach idled, its window rolled down slightly. From the outside, the sharp, icy contours of the man in the driver's seat were faintly visible. A luxury car, a handsome man—they naturally drew stares from passersby. Wealth and good looks were Maxwell Harrington's defining traits. After all these years, I'd grown numb to it. Ignoring the curious glances, I climbed into the passenger seat. The man, who had been sitting with eyes closed, sensed the movement. He furrowed his brow slightly, didn't open his eyes, and said in a low voice, "Done?" "Yes." I nodded, handing him the contract I'd signed with the hospital. "Leonard Whitmore sends his regards." I'd originally come to sign the contract myself, but I'd run into Maxwell Harrington along the way. For some reason, he'd offered to drive me here. "You'll oversee this case from beginning to end," Maxwell Harrington said, as terse as ever. He didn't take the contract, merely issued the order before starting the car. I nodded, saying nothing. After so long in silence, I'd become adept at nothing more than obeying and working. The car headed toward the city center. Evening had fallen. He wasn't going back to the villa—where was he going? I was curious, but I never questioned his affairs, so I stayed silent. Thinking of the ultrasound report, I struggled with how to bring it up. I glanced sideways. His eyes were fixed ahead, sharp and cold, just as they'd always been. "Maxwell Harrington!" I spoke, my hand clutching my bag, palms damp with nerves. "Speak." Two cold words, stripped of emotion. He'd always treated me this way. With time, I'd learned to accept it. I pushed down my anxiety, took a breath, and said, "I…" Only three words—but his phone rang. The words died in my throat. "Ariana, what's wrong?" Some people reserve their tenderness for just one person—whether deep love or passionate joy, it's always meant for one. Maxwell Harrington's tenderness belonged to Ariana Whitmore. You could hear it in the way he spoke to her. I didn't know what Ariana Whitmore said on the other end, but Maxwell Harrington suddenly slammed on the brakes and said soothingly into the phone, "Alright, I'll come soon. Don't go wandering off." After hanging up, his face hardened back into icy severity. He turned to me and said, "Get out." An order with no room for argument. It wasn't the first time. I nodded, swallowed every word I'd meant to say, opened the door, and stepped out. My marriage to Maxwell Harrington was an accident, yet also fated—but it had nothing to do with love. Maxwell Harrington's heart belonged to Ariana Whitmore. My existence was mere decoration, or perhaps an obstacle. Two years ago, Mr. Edmund Harrington suffered a myocardial infarction. On his deathbed, he forced Maxwell Harrington to marry me. Though reluctant, Maxwell Harrington obeyed his father and took me as his wife. For two years, with the old man alive, Maxwell Harrington treated me as invisible. Now that he was gone, Maxwell Harrington couldn't wait to have a lawyer draft divorce papers—waiting only for my signature. Back at the villa, night had fallen. The vast house felt hollow, like a haunted house. Probably due to the pregnancy, I had no appetite. I went straight to the bedroom, washed up, and went to sleep. Half-asleep, not yet fully unconscious, I faintly heard the sound of a car engine shutting off in the courtyard. Maxwell Harrington was back? But hadn't he gone to be with Ariana Whitmore?