LAYLA'S POV
I didn't answer her. I removed my arm from her grip and rushed toward the bathroom, ignoring the burning pain she left on my skin. My stomach was twisting, and I barely made it to the toilet before I threw up.
It wasn't just the nausea. It was everything. The pressure. The disgust. The humiliation. The sharp ache in my heart. I held the edge of the sink, breathing hard, trying to steady myself.
I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
"You're not weak," I whispered.
The bathroom door creaked open.
I turned slowly, already knowing who it was.
Jordan.
He stood in the doorway, face like stone, eyes dark with something I couldn't read. He looked like he wanted to spit venom.
"How dare you walk away while I'm talking to you?" he said sharply. "You threw up? In the middle of my sentence?"
I didn't flinch. "I didn't do it on purpose."
He stepped forward, grabbing my wrist tightly. His grip hurt, but I didn't wince. I stared back at him.
"Let go," I said, calm but firm.
He didn't.
"So now I disgust you, huh?" he hissed. "Is that what this is about? My presence makes you sick?"
I didn't respond. There was no point. He didn't come here for truth—he came to taunt me.
"You think you have the right to act sick around me?" His voice rose. "After everything you did? You seduced me, destroyed my life, drove Victoria away—and you think you get to throw up at the sight of me?"
"You don't know anything," I said quietly.
His grip tightened, and pain shot up my arm.
"You're hurting me," I said again, louder this time.
He leaned closer, eyes filled with emotions I couldn't name. Was it anger or disgust? "I don't care."
That was the truth. He didn't care.
He shoved me back, and I stumbled, my back hitting the counter. My wrist throbbed. I looked down at the red mark he left on my skin and swallowed the pain.
"You make me sick," he said, turning away.
Those words didn't sting the way they used to. Not anymore.
I stood still for a moment, breathing deeply, letting the silence settle around me.
"I'm sorry you believe that," I said quietly.
He paused at the doorway but didn't look back. "Get the bed ready. I'm bringing her here tonight. I don't want to see your face."
He left, slamming the door behind him.
I stood there for a while, staring at the closed door.
Then I walked to the bedroom. I made the bed neatly. Changed the sheets. Fluffed the pillows. Cleared out anything that reminded him of me.
I didn't do it because he told me to.
I did it because I needed to stay in control of myself. Even if it meant doing things that burned inside.
When I finished, I stepped out of the room and went straight to the rooftop.
The air was cold up there. Quiet.
This was my space. The only place in this house where no one came. A place where I could think. Breathe.
I looked out over the city, arms folded around myself.
He was going to sleep with another woman in the bed we shared. And I was expected to stay quiet, disappear, and pretend I was okay.
I let out a breath.
I wasn't okay.
But I would survive.
I had survived worse.
I sat down on the cold floor and leaned my back against the railing. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel everything—the sadness, the anger, the disgust.
But only for a moment.
Then I wiped my face and stood.
I needed to do something.
Something for myself.
I needed to go to the hospital and check on the baby. Make sure the stress wasn't hurting it. I couldn't let anyone else harm this child. I couldn't let my pain become its burden.
I called a cab. I wasn't allowed to touch any of the King family cars, and I wasn't going to ask for help.
The ride was long. Every turn made my heart beat harder.
The hospital was quiet when I arrived. The receptionist remembered me. She smiled kindly and led me to the same doctor who had known my mother years ago.
He looked up from the file and gave me a gentle smile. "Layla. It's good to see you. But I assume this isn't a casual visit."
I shook my head.
He nodded and gestured for me to lie down. After a quick exam, he looked at me with concern in his eyes.
"Your baby is doing okay—for now," he said carefully. "But you're under too much stress. If you don't take care of yourself, you could lose the pregnancy."
My chest tightened.
I placed a hand on my belly and nodded.
"I understand," I whispered.
He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You need rest, Layla. Real rest. And support."
I smiled faintly. "I'll try."
But we both knew I had no one.
Still, I had to be strong. Not just for me. For the life growing inside me.
I left the hospital and rode back in silence. When I got to the mansion, everything felt too still. Like the walls were waiting for another fight.
I had a few hours before Jordan came back with his new toy. A few hours of peace.
I used them well.
I ate. I sat in the garden for a few minutes. I touched my stomach and whispered, "You'll be okay."
Jordan and Victoria were probably out somewhere laughing. Pretending they were the couple who belonged.
I didn't care.
I walked back into the house and headed to my room. I was planning to shower—again—but something stopped me in my tracks.
The door was slightly open.
And standing in the middle of the room was Mrs. King.
Her eyes were locked on something in her hands. A folded paper. Thin. Familiar.
I froze.
She turned slowly, eyes blazing, holding up the paper like it was poison.
"And what is this?" she demanded.
My throat went dry. "That's…"
"Don't lie to me," she snapped. "Is this what I think it is?"
I didn't say a word.
She stepped closer, shaking the paper. "Are you trying to trap my son with a bastard child, you shameless girl?!"
My jaw tightened.
"Don't call my child that," I said firmly.
Her eyes widened. Shocked. Furious.
"You dare talk back to me?" she growled.
I glared at her, I was going to be in big trouble when Jordan gets back but right now, all I could care about is to defend the baby growing in my stomach.