LAYLA'S POV
I step out of the restroom and pause in front of the tall mirror hanging on the side wall of the guest room I now call mine. It's a small, cold space in the King mansion, but it's the only place I'm allowed to stay.
Every morning, I stop here. Not to admire myself, far from it, but to remember how my husband and his family treat me.
My hazel eyes still hold some spark, even if it's dulled with overnight aging. My cheekbones are sharper than I'd like. I look tired, too tired, to be precise.
I don't recognize myself sometimes. My skin looks pale, like all the color has been drained out of me slowly. My lips are dry no matter how much water I drink. My fingers tremble when I'm still too long. My arms are thin, marked with light bruises from carrying trays and rushing around. But I'm still standing. And I will keep standing. Because I have a reason now.
I place a hand on my stomach and take a slow breath.
There's life in there. A small heartbeat. A future. One I didn't plan for… but one I will fight for.
No one can know I'm pregnant. Not yet. If they find out, they'll throw me out like garbage.
And worse… this baby belongs to the man who made my life hell.
I found out yesterday. Alone. Silent. Two pink lines stared up at me from the test I took in the tiny bathroom at the back of the mansion. I sat on the edge of the cold tub for almost an hour after, holding it in my hand like it was a time bomb. I haven't cried. I won't cry. Not yet. I'm too focused on surviving.
Would Jordan care if he knew? Would his mother stop spitting venom at the sound of my name?
I almost laugh.
Of course not.
To them, I've always been something under their shoe. The poor girl who got lucky. The outsider who didn't belong. The scandal they can't get rid of without making a scene.
Shaking off the thought, I pull on a loose grey dress and smooth it down. It hides everything—for now. I run my fingers through my hair and step into the hallway, heading to the kitchen. Another day of chores, insults, and pretending I don't hear the whispers.
The floor beneath my feet is polished so well that I can see my reflection in some parts. Every corner of this house screams wealth—marble, gold edges, crystal lights—but to me, it's all cold. Empty. It doesn't feel like a home. Just a place that looks pretty on the outside while rotting on the inside.
I pass portraits of the King family lining the hallway walls. Big smiles, perfect clothes, fake happiness. I wonder if they ever look at those photos and see the lies in their eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. King," I say as I step into the living room.
She's staring out the window, as usual, looking like she owns the world and hates everything in it. Her back is stiff. She holds her teacup like it's made of diamonds.
She doesn't reply.
No surprise there.
"Make me a cup of tea," she says, still not looking at me. "The usual."
I nod and walk to the kitchen. No "please." No "thank you." Just orders.
That's fine.
I move quickly, boiling water, adding cream, and just enough sugar. I've made this tea every day for months. I know how she likes it. I could make it in my sleep.
I set the cup on a silver tray and carry it out. Calm, careful. I keep my face neutral as I offer it.
She takes a sip. Then spits it out.
"You slut," she snaps, slamming the cup down. "You think you can worm your way into this family with your fake manners? You can't even make tea. Pathetic."
The words sting, but I don't flinch. I've heard worse. Her voice is sharp and cold, like a knife dipped in poison. I lower my eyes, mostly to hide the anger. Because if I look at her too long, I'll say something I can't take back.
She still blames me for that video. That night. She never believed I was drugged. Never asked what really happened. To her, I'm a stain on the family name.
The mug flies past my face and crashes into the wall. Tea splashes everywhere. I don't move. I've learned stillness is safer.
I kneel and clean the mess with a rag from my apron. The tea burns my fingers a little, but I don't flinch. I hear her muttering under her breath, but I don't let the words land. Not this time.
This mansion—with all its cold marble and high walls—is a cage. The King family may rule businesses across the country, but I'm nothing here. A servant in my own marriage.
On paper, I'm Jordan's wife. In reality, I'm a tolerated ghost.
They never accepted me. Not even on day one. I remember the day I arrived. The fake smiles. The whispering in the halls. The way Mrs. King looked me up and down like I was filth on her carpet.
And I never asked to be here.
But life didn't give me a choice.
I rise with a calm smile. "I'll make another cup, ma'am. Sorry about the mix-up."
She says nothing. Just waves her hand like I'm an insect buzzing too close.
Back in the kitchen, I press my fingers to my eyes and take a breath. No tears. Not here. Not now.
I can't afford to be weak.
I make the second cup exactly how she likes it. Less sugar. More cream. Measured down to the drop. I check the temperature. Wipe the rim. Everything perfect.
I walk it back out with steady hands.
She takes a sip. Scowls again.
"What is this? Didn't I tell you how I like it?"
I want to scream. I did it right. I know I did. But I say nothing. It's a game to her—break me, then act shocked when I don't shatter fast enough.
The front door opens.
For a second, I let myself hope it's someone kind. A maid. A guest. Anyone other than—
That scent hits me.
Oak. Spices.
Jordan.
My stomach tightens.
He steps in, sharp in a tailored black suit. And beside him is a woman. Long red hair, tight dress, a smug smile.
Three weeks since I last saw him.
He looks at me like I'm dirt under his shoe.
"You're still here?" he says, a mocking smirk tugging at his lips. "Didn't think you'd last this long."
He turns to the redhead. "Make sure the guest room's ready," he tells me. "She's special."
She giggles.
I stare at them, willing myself not to react. But nausea twists my insides. Not now. Not in front of them.
I turn to leave, but Mrs. King grabs my arm. Her grip is steel.
Her eyes narrow.
"Are you…?"