“Mrs. Adam, we have photos of Miss Goodrem staying in this hotel last night. It appears she and Mr. Adam entered a room together. Yet, this morning, you and Mr. Adam are leaving together. Can you explain why?”
Mr. Adam. Mr. Adam. Mr. Adam.
They wielded the title like a dagger, slicing into me with every question.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Christopher watching me.
His expression was unreadable, but the sheer depth of hatred in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
What kind of resentment made a man drag himself through the mud just to see someone else drown?
I hadn’t slept all night. My head throbbed with an unbearable ache.
Summoning the last of my strength, I shoved past the reporters, stumbling forward.
I had to get away.
But as I reached the first intersection outside the hotel…
The world around me spun and darkness swallowed me whole.
Christopher pulled up beside me, rolling down the window.
“I don’t want reporters following me,” he said flatly. “Get in.”
I hesitated, glancing at the flashing lights behind me. The hungry swarm of journalists was still lingering, their cameras ready to capture any sign of weakness.
With no other choice, I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
Only then did I realize—there was already a pool of blood between my legs.
Panic surged through me as I tried to cover the stain with my coat, but Christopher noticed immediately.
His brows furrowed and he glanced at me sideways. “Is the child okay?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could speak, his phone rang.
Lisa’s voice, soft and tinged with tears, filled the car.
“Christopher, my family is pressuring me to get married again… What should I do? Dad gave me a week to decide. You have to come up with a solution.”
There’s nothing more heartbreaking than a young woman’s sorrow—at least, that’s what Christopher seemed to believe.
He pulled the car over and sat in silence for a long moment before replying.
“One week is enough. Wait for me to propose to you.”
A few more murmured words of comfort and then he hung up.
The air between us turned suffocatingly silent.
Christopher finally turned to look at me. There was something in his eyes—an emotion I couldn’t decipher.
“It’s just an act for the child,” he said, almost as if reassuring himself. “Don’t take it to heart.”
I didn’t respond.
He restarted the car, his voice turning softer. “Where were we before?”