Darkness had long beco a constant companion for Janet. She no longer bothered to check the ti—what difference did it make anymore? At the sa hour each day, a maid would co in with warm soup or nourishing herbal tonics, all carefully arranged under Charles’s instructions.
At first, she resisted. But gradually, that resistance faded, worn down by silence and fatigue. Even when her stomach could no longer hold the bitter brews and forced her to vomit, she still drank them—because in her heart, she wanted to bring his child into this world safely and healthily.
Day and night had lost all distinction. Her world was confined to a room, and the only thing she longed for now was a fleeting glimpse of him. But even that simple wish proved difficult to fulfill. She saw him less and less. And when she did, it was only in the quietest hours—when he believed she was fast asleep.
Only then would she turn toward him in the dark, tracing his features with trembling fingertips. She knew every contour of his face so well, she could draw it with her eyes closed.
"You’ve been so good lately, Janet," he whispered one night, his voice low and almost trembling. "Can’t we go back to the way things were? I’ll love you, just like before. Always."
To Charles, her calmness looked like surrender. And in that surrender, he saw hope—hope for reconciliation, hope for a future, hope for forgiveness.
He took her hand gently, lifting it to his lips. Then, almost instinctively, his other hand moved to her stomach. It had beco a nightly ritual, as though he needed to confirm again and again that the life within her was real, that this second chance hadn’t slipped away.
Perhaps it was the gentleness in his tone, or the vulnerability in his touch—but Janet, who had fought so hard to keep her distance, found herself collapsing into his arms, overco by a sorrow she could no longer hold back.
Tears welled up and slipped from the corners of her eyes, though she knew she shouldn’t cry. Not now. Not in her condition.
But her arms lifted anyway, wrapping around his neck. Maybe it was selfish of her. Maybe, deep down, she was using his love to ease her own pain. Yet for just this mont, she wanted to be close. She needed to be close.
Her silence said more than any words could. Charles understood. He leaned in, pressing his lips gently to hers—slowly, reverently, as if afraid she might disappear. How long had it been since they’d last shared a kiss like this?
His kisses deepened, trailing down her neck, and she surrendered to the tenderness she’d denied herself for so long. When he touched her, it was not with urgency, but with reverence—as though she were sothing fragile, sothing sacred.
And she trembled beneath his hands. Not from fear. Not anymore.
Charles whispered at her ear, voice husky and low, "Trust . I’ll be gentle."
She nodded faintly, her lips parting with a soft sound that was more sigh than speech. And with that, whatever walls remained between them finally gave way.
Their bodies t—cautiously at first, like waves brushing the shore. Each motion carried the weight of longing, regret, and the tenderness that only love long restrained can bring. Janet clung to him, to the warmth of his breath, the steadiness of his heart, the familiar scent that wrapped around her like a mory she could never let go of.
He called her na, hoarse and reverent, over and over again, as if speaking it might keep her beside him a little longer.
And though the mont did not last forever, it lingered—soft, aching, unforgettable.
Later, as he moved to part from her, she surprised him. Her arms tightened, legs curling around him, refusing to let go. Her face, flushed and damp, was radiant in a way that stole his breath. Strands of hair clung to her cheeks like seaweed in the tide. Her lips were bitten red. Her eyes half-lidded, unreadable.
"Janet?" he whispered, stunned by the intensity of her gaze.
In that instant, sothing passed between them—not forgiveness, not surrender, not yet. But sothing deeper.
Sothing neither of them dared to na.
The night of passion had not lasted long. Perhaps mindful of Janet’s pregnancy, Charles withdrew once his desires were sated. Yet just as he was about to pull away, Janet—who had never taken the initiative so boldly before—wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, stopping him.
"Janet?" he looked down at her in surprise.
She was lying beneath him, her body damp with a sheen of sweat, strands of her hair spilling across the pillow like seaweed drifting in a quiet tide. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and bitten red, her eyes half-lidded with a kind of dazed seduction that made it impossible for him to look away.
"The baby says... she wants Daddy to feel her," she murmured, pulling his hand gently back to her belly.
The subtle aning behind her words stirred sothing deep within him. For days, he had longed for her closeness, and this was the first ti she had actively reached for him—not with fear or resistance, but with need.
They said pregnant won were the most beautiful, and now, looking at her like this, he finally understood. His love for her surged again, overwhelming and unstoppable.
"You little minx," Charles whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with restraint. He wanted to hold back, to protect her, but she was too warm, too inviting, too heartbreakingly soft.
Still halfway inside her, he gave in once more, pressing deeper into her trembling body, his lips capturing hers in a kiss more desperate than any before.
That night, in the heat of skin and breath and whispered nas, sothing between them shifted. The distance between their hearts grew smaller, just barely.
But Charles didn’t realize—at least not yet—that even this intimacy was part of her plan.
"I want to go out today, Charles," Janet said softly the next morning.
It had been over two weeks since she had last stepped outside the villa. Not only had he locked her away, but he’d also cut off all her access to the outside world. No phone, no internet, not even a house phone. He had ant it when he said he would do whatever it took to keep her with him until the baby was born.
But now, after a night that left his heart open and unguarded again, Janet knew exactly how to strike.
Charles, mid-buttoning his shirt, paused for a brief second. Just a second—but enough. Then he resud calmly, moving to pull on his trousers as Janet stepped over, already dressed in her robe. She reached up with practiced ease and began to straighten his collar, tying his tie with the care of a devoted wife.
He looked down, his gaze brushing against her neck and shoulders. There were marks—his marks—scattered across her pale skin like crimson petals on snow. She leaned into his chest, her body soft and warm in his arms, her expression tender, her smile quiet. She looked, in every sense, like the woman who belonged to him.
"I don’t need you to co. Just send a driver," she said sweetly. "I want to pick up so maternity clothes... and maybe a few things for the baby."
"That’s all the more reason for to go with you," Charles replied, wrapping his arm around her waist.
She was still so slender. No one would guess she was already three months pregnant. Had he not felt the barely noticeable swell of her belly last night beneath his palm, he might not have believed it himself—that in just a few months, their child would co into the world through her.
He didn’t know that even now, she was watching his every move.
Waiting.
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