Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You Chapter 85: Who is Rodrigo?

Sarah

The sound of his voice. It stirred sothing deep within , like a long-forgotten song.

Yet, despite the familiarity, I can’t rember who he is. All I can do is feel a wave of overwhelming fear. Why is that?

"Sarah?" Matthew murmurs in my ear.

I snap my head toward him and force out a smile. "Yeah?"

"What’s the matter with you?" he asks.

"Nothing," I reply, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Matthew’s eyes search mine, his brow furrowing slightly. He doesn’t believe .

"I need sothing to drink," I say, desperate to move away from Rodrigo.

Matthew nods, his hand still protectively at my back as he guides toward the bar. I can feel Rodrigo watching us as we walk away, his stare burning into my shoulder blades.

"Whiskey, neat," Matthew tells the bartender. "And a soda for my wife."

"Thanks," I say absent-mindedly.

Matthew waits until the bartender moves away before turning to . "Who is that guy? And don’t tell ’nobody’ because you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I take a deep breath, fingers drumming nervously against the polished mahogany of the bar. "I don’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t rember him."

"But?"

"But sothing feels... wrong." I shake my head, frustrated by my own vague unease. "It’s like when you hear a song and you know all the words but can’t rember where you learned them."

The bartender slides our drinks over. I grab mine and take a small sip.

"Well, he is your father’s friend and he rembers you well it seems," Matthew says, his voice careful, asured.

I nod slowly. "It’s probably no big deal."

I glance over my shoulder. Rodrigo is still there, chatting with soone else now, but I can feel the weight of his presence like a shadow crawling up my spine.

"You clearly don’t like him, Sarah," Matthew says quietly. "Try to rember why."

But I can’t rember. No matter how much I search in my mories, nothing cos up. "I think I will tell my parents that I am pregnant tonight," I say, desperate to change the subject.

Matthew gives an odd look. "You didn’t tell them?"

I shake my head. "I didn’t find the right ti. They just got back from vacation. And besides, I wanted you to be here when I tell them the news."

"Ah," he says simply and sips on his drink.

He cocks his head to the side. "Are you trying to distract from the subject of Rodrigo?"

I bite my lip. "No."

Matthew’s eyes soften slightly. He leans in, his voice low. "Alright. When do you want to tell them?"

"Maybe near the end of the party," I reply.

Matthew nods, his gaze drifting over my shoulder. "Your mother is waving us over."

I turn to see her gesturing imperiously toward a table near the front of the room.

"Let’s get this over with," I mutter, smoothing down my dress.

Matthew places his hand on my lower back again, guiding through the crowd. The touch is reassuring, grounding when I feel like I might float away on a tide of anxiety.

The table is already half-full. My father sits at the head, with my mother to his right. Rodrigo is seated beside her, and there are two empty chairs next to him. My stomach drops.

"Sarah, Matthew," my father says warmly, "we saved you seats right here."

Right next to Rodrigo. Perfect.

I hesitate, and Matthew’s hand presses more firmly against my back.

"Where’s Marishka?" I ask, noticing her absence.

"Oh, I seated her at table three," my mother says with a dismissive wave. "With so of the staff. I’m sure she’ll be more comfortable there."

I open my mouth to protest, but Matthew’s hand squeezes my waist gently. A warning. Not now.

"Hello again," Rodrigo says as we sit, his smile wide and gleaming. "Charles was just telling about your work at the company, Matthew. Very impressive for soone so young."

Matthew nods curtly. "Thank you. Sarah is the one who is responsible for the company’s success."

I feel a warmth spread through . Matthew almost sounds like he is proud of . Could it be that he doesn’t hate as much anymore?

The waiter arrives with champagne, pouring it into crystal flutes. I watch the bubbles rise and pop at the surface, wishing I could take a sip to calm my nerves. But I can’t.

"A toast," my father announces, raising his glass. "To fifty years with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known."

Everyone raises their glasses. I lift mine but don’t drink, hoping no one notices.

"Why aren’t you drinking, Sarah? It’s bad luck not to take a sip when you toast," my mother says sharply.

Darn it.

My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. For a second, my mind blanks, then Matthew swoops in, his voice calm and smooth.

"She’s been feeling a bit queasy all day," he says with a light chuckle. "Must be sothing she ate."

I shoot him a grateful look. My mother arches a suspicious brow but says nothing, taking a sip of her champagne instead. Rodrigo watches over the rim of his glass, and it sends another chill down my spine.

"Well, I hope you’re not coming down with anything," my father says, concern softening his voice. "We need you healthy and sharp."

"I’ll be fine," I murmur, setting my glass down.

Conversation swells around the table again, but I’m only half-listening. Rodrigo is far too close. Every ti he shifts in his seat, I feel it. The scent of his cologne—it’s unfamiliar, yet my body reacts like it’s sothing I should fear. Like it’s sothing I’ve feared before.

"You look lovely tonight," Rodrigo says quietly, just to . "I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s been so long."

I blink at him, heart thudding. "You say you know ... but I don’t rember you."

His smile is polite, but his eyes hold sothing colder. "mories can be tricky things."

Matthew’s hand slides beneath the table, finding mine. His fingers wrap around mine tightly.

"What is it that you do again, Rodrigo?" Matthew asks, his tone carefully neutral.

"Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that," Rodrigo replies breezily. "Consulting mostly. Your father and I worked together on a few projects overseas."

"Right," Matthew says, not even pretending to be interested.

I glance at my mother, who is laughing at sothing my father said. She looks... happy. Content. As if nothing in the world is wrong.

But my hands are shaking.

I lean toward Matthew. "I want to tell them. Now. Before I lose my nerve."

He looks at , assessing. "You sure?"

I nod. "Yeah."

Matthew gently taps his fork against his glass. The clear ting ting ting rings out over the chatter, drawing eyes. My heart jumps into my throat.

"If I could have everyone’s attention," he says, smiling as if this were all perfectly normal. "Sarah would like to share so news."

All eyes fall on .

I smile and force my voice to steady.

"I’m pregnant," I say, louder than I ant to.

A beat of silence.

Then my mother gasps. My father’s face lights up. Guests start clapping and smiling.

"Congratulations," Rodrigo says.

"Pregnant? We have been through this before. Are you sure it’s real this ti?" Mom comnts.

"Evelyn!" Dad scolds her.

I flinch at her words, the heat rising to my cheeks.

"It is real," Matthew says firmly. "No tricks this ti."

My mother’s lips press into a thin line, but she says nothing more. My father reaches across the table, placing a hand over mine.

"This is wonderful news, sweetheart," he says, his eyes twinkling with genuine delight. "You’re going to be an amazing mother."

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I nod, offering him a small, grateful smile.

"Congratulations," Rodrigo repeats, his tone syrupy. "A child is a true blessing."

I pull my hand from the table and fold it into my lap, hiding the tremble I can’t seem to control.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice barely audible.

The conversation picks up again. Clinking glasses, laughter, and questions about the due date, but I feel detached like I’m floating just outside of my own body.

Matthew leans close to , his breath warm against my ear. "Wanna dance?"

I look at him with surprise. "What?" I ask dumbly.

"Do you want to dance, Sarah?" he repeats. "What’s the matter? You used to beg to dance with you, rember?"

"I..." I glance at Matthew, eting his gaze. There’s a subtle kindness in his eyes that makes the suggestion feel comforting, like a lifeline.

"Okay," I whisper. "Let’s dance."

Matthew’s lips curl into a small smile, and without another word, he stands and extends his hand to . His grip is steady as I place my hand in his, and he gently leads away from the table.

As we stand on the dance floor, Matthew places his other hand on my waist, his touch firm but gentle. I feel the subtle rhythm of the music, the steady beat pulsing through , but it’s Matthew’s presence that anchors , his warmth offering a rescue from the unease that has been lingering.

"You are safe," he murmurs softly, as if reading my mind.

For a mont, I forget about Rodrigo and just focus on the dance. Focus on Matthew.

I feel like I can breathe again.