Chapter 12:
The morning sun filtered weakly through the sheer curtains of Jessica Cooper's modest apartment. Wrapped in her fluffy robe, she shuffled into the living room, a steaming cup of ginger tea cradled in her hands. Her stomach rolled again, a low wave of nausea threatening her already fragile calm. It had been a rough morning—just like the day before, and the day before that.
Every five minutes since dawn, her phone had been lighting up with calls from her father. She hadn't answered a single one.
"Let him rage," she muttered under her breath, slowly lowering herself onto the couch. The scent of the tea soothed her slightly, but not enough to wash away the heaviness in her chest.
Cecilia had stopped by earlier—concerned, of course. Jessica hadn't been able to hide her pale complexion or the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
"Remember, today we're having dinner with our savior, Mr. King," Cecilia had joked with a playful smirk, giving Jessica a light nudge before leaving again.
Jessica had nodded mutely, giving a vague smile. Deep down, she wasn't sure she had the strength to go anywhere today, much less sit across from the man whose voice still echoed in her head from yesterday.
"Is it the time of the month?" he'd said so casually.
She nearly choked on her tea just thinking about it. Her cheeks burned crimson—not from embarrassment this time, but a slow, simmering anger that crawled up her spine. How could someone be so utterly arrogant, so infuriatingly composed?
She wasn't sure what was worse—that he asked so bluntly, or that her body had reacted at the sound of his voice—flushed, flustered, and betrayed by her own heart.
"I am never going to forgive him," she whispered under her breath, setting the tea cup down on the coffee table. The soft clink of porcelain against glass echoed louder than it should've.
But despite her resolve, part of her kept circling back to that hospital report. Three weeks. She touched her stomach unconsciously.
My baby…
Eventually, she knew she would have to tell Cecilia. There was only so much longer she could hide it. And she didn't want to hide it. Not from her best friend.
Just… not yet.
Meanwhile, at the Cooper family estate, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.
The grand double doors rattled on their hinges as Richard Cooper's voice bellowed through the marble halls. "How dare she! After everything I've done—after all these years!"
Maids ducked into storage closets. The butler, Harold, feigned being urgently busy in the wine cellar. No one wanted to be within breathing distance of the enraged patriarch.
He had just gotten off the phone with the King Corporation's legal department. The contract—their golden ticket to financial survival—had been formally withdrawn.
The King Corporation was no longer interested in collaborating with the Cooper family business.
All because of Jessica.
"Ungrateful child!" he spat, slamming a crystal glass against the bar. The shards scattered like ice across the hardwood floor. "I raised her, gave her everything, and she dares to throw it away for what? A tantrum?"
From her perch on the velvet chaise lounge, Cynthia—his second wife—crossed one leg elegantly over the other. She stirred her coffee with deliberate slowness, her lips curled into a faint smirk. "Well, Richard, I did warn you," she said, her tone oozing false sympathy. "If you'd just allowed Clara to take Jessica's place, this would never have happened."
He turned sharply to her. "Clara? That daughter of yours ran off with a starving artist! She shamed this family more than Jessica ever did."
Cynthia's eyes glinted, but her expression remained placid. "Yes, but at least Clara knows how to make a man commit. Jessica? She can't even keep a contract."
That hit its mark.
"Don't you dare bring that disgrace of yours back into this household," Richard growled, storming toward his study. "Neither Clara nor Jessica will inherit anything if they keep making fools of me."
As the heavy study doors slammed shut, Cynthia's smile grew sharper.
She lifted her cup and sipped calmly, eyes gleaming.
Let the old fool rage. In her mind, the game was only beginning.
Back at Jessica's apartment, she stood in front of the mirror, assessing her appearance with tired eyes. She'd finally forced herself into something simple but elegant—a soft beige dress with flowing sleeves that masked her slightly bloated figure. She applied a touch of blush, some lip balm, but couldn't bring herself to add more.
She looked… human. Tired, yes, but human.
Can I really sit through dinner with Spencer King tonight?
Her heart squeezed at the thought. After what he said—after how close he'd come to the truth—it felt dangerous to be in the same room as him. But Cecilia had already arranged everything, and she couldn't bail now.
Still, she wasn't ready to tell him.
Not yet.
Not until she was sure of what she wanted.
For now, she would go. Play her role. Pretend, if she had to.
But one thing she wouldn't do—was fall apart.
Not in front of him.