Chapter 14
Jessica Cooper barely managed to pull her shoes off by the time she entered her apartment. Her shoulders ached, her stomach turned lightly, and her nerves were like tightly coiled wire. The dinner with Spencer King had gone as smoothly as she'd rehearsed—polite, distant, devoid of emotion—but it had taken everything in her not to crack under his gaze.
Just as she set her purse down, a knock sounded on the door.
Jessica opened it to see Cecilia standing there, her long hair slightly windblown and a sheepish expression on her face.
"I'm sorry, Jess," Cecilia said, stepping inside with a small bag of takeaway boxes. "I really couldn't escape work. You don't know how bad I felt dumping you like that."
Jessica, already too tired to be properly mad, just nodded and closed the door. "It's fine. Dinner's over. Everything's over."
"I owe you, seriously," Cecilia said, putting the food down and heading toward the kitchen. "Don't worry—I brought actual edible stuff this time. No more instant noodles."
They sat down at the table. Jessica tried to focus on eating, chewing slowly, hoping that would tame the nausea roiling inside her.
It didn't help.
Halfway through her third bite, the familiar churn twisted through her belly like a wave of hot oil. She stood abruptly. "I'll be right back," she muttered, bolting to the bathroom.
Cecilia watched her go, her brows drawing together in concern. "Again?" she whispered to herself.
In the bathroom, Jessica leaned over the sink, forcing steady breaths. "Just hold it together," she whispered to her reflection. She splashed cold water on her face and waited until her stomach settled.
When she returned, Cecilia was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a bright children's program playing on the TV.
"Jess! Come watch with me!" she called without turning her head. "You seriously have to see this—it's so dumb, but so cute."
Jessica blinked. "You're watching... cartoons?"
"Well, technically it's a kids' show. But it's kind of nostalgic, right?"
Jessica hesitated. Work, responsibilities, the looming pressure of her secret—they didn't leave her much room for nostalgia. She rarely even turned on the TV.
Still, something about the soft hum of the program, the familiar cheerful theme song, made her legs move forward. She sank beside Cecilia and stared blankly at the screen.
It was a little girl, about six, struggling in a kitchen too big for her small frame. She stood on tiptoes, barely reaching the sink, trying to wash a bowl. Her oversized apron sagged off her shoulders, and when she turned to call for her mom, the bowl tipped and spilled water everywhere. Her eyes widened—big, round, and blue, brimming with anxiety.
Jessica felt a lump lodge in her throat.
Her mind traveled backward.
She was six again, standing on a stool in the kitchen, refusing help from anyone. Her mother had warned her, told her not to touch the flour bag. She'd dumped it anyway, thinking it was baby powder—white and fluffy, just like on TV. She'd ended up sneezing and crying as flour covered the whole floor.
Cecilia, as if reading her mind, chuckled beside her. "Remember when you poured a whole bag of flour out because you thought it was powder?"
Jessica laughed softly, but her smile was bittersweet. "Yeah… I remember."
"You were so stubborn, Jess. You always wanted to do everything yourself, like some tiny boss baby."
Jessica nodded, her gaze locked on the screen. The child's innocence, her effort, her big eyes—it hit her hard.
Suddenly, she was no longer watching a TV show.
She was watching her own child. The one she hadn't met yet. The one growing silently inside her.
Her stomach clenched—not from nausea this time, but from something much heavier. Guilt. Fear. Love. Everything at once.
She stood without saying a word.
"Jess?" Cecilia looked up, puzzled.
"I'm tired," Jessica said quietly. "I'm going to bed."
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she lied. "Just need some rest."
Inside her room, she closed the door and leaned against it, pressing her palm against her abdomen.
What am I doing? she thought.
How was she supposed to raise a child? What kind of future could she give a baby when she herself was barely holding her life together? Her father had practically disowned her, her reputation in the family was hanging by a thread, and Spencer King—he didn't even know yet.
She pressed her fingers into her temples, breathing deeply.
The baby hadn't asked to be born. She had made the mistake—one night, one accident—but this tiny life now depended entirely on her.
Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes. She lay down on her bed, curling onto her side. "I'll figure it out," she whispered into the pillow. "I don't know how, but I will."
Across the city, in his sleek penthouse apartment, Spencer King sat at his desk, flipping through the folder his assistant had delivered.
Hospital Report – Confidential
Patient: Jessica Cooper
Result: Positive pregnancy test (3 weeks)
He stared at the paper again, brows furrowed, lips tight.
This was the third time he was staring at the report , since his assistant had given it to him.
Three weeks ago. He clearly remembered that night vividly—her awkward stumble into the wrong room, her flushed cheeks, the scent of cherry wine clinging to her skin.
He remembered how tightly she had held the bedsheet afterward, how she'd turned her face away, ashamed, broken. How he'd quietly stepped out of the room after covering her, taking every ounce of control not to touch her again.
He thought she had taken the morning-after pill. His men confirmed it—she had bought it and even took it at the pharmacy.
So what had gone wrong?
Did she take it too late? Or... is she lying to trap me?
He hated that thought. Hated that Jessica Cooper, with all her fire and stubbornness, might be manipulative enough to use a baby to gain leverage.
But something about her—the cold silence during dinner, the way she looked him in the eye without a trace of fear—told him otherwise.
She wasn't trying to trap him.
She was hiding it.
From him.
Spencer picked up his phone, typing a brief message.
Meet me tomorrow. 2 PM. At the rooftop café in Central Tower. Don't be late.
Back at her apartment, Jessica's phone buzzed. She rubbed her eyes and picked it up.
Mr. King – the name blinked on the screen.
She opened the message and read it twice.
Her heart pounded.
"He knows," she whispered.
No. No, he didn't. If he knew, he wouldn't be asking. He would demand. He would confront.
Still, she couldn't risk it. Her hands trembled as she placed the phone down and switched off her lamp.
Lying in the dark, her hand subconsciously rested on her stomach.
"I'll protect you," she whispered to the child inside her. "No matter what happens tomorrow… I'll protect you."