Chapter 5 Another Pregnancy

Maeve's POV

"Herman, wait," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the ventilation. "I can't... I'm on my period."

His eyebrows furrowed, and I could feel the tension in his fingers. "That's not possible," he said, his voice low and controlled. "Your cycle is regular. I know your schedule."

A chill ran through me at his words. Of course he would know—he always appeared in my room like clockwork right after my period ended, demanding what he considered rightfully his.

"Check if you don't believe me," I managed to say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

His hand moved downward, and I held my breath. Through the thin cotton of my underwear, his fingers traced along until they encountered the unmistakable bulk of the sanitary pad. His grip finally loosened, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Herman took a step back, and I could breathe again. In the mirror, I watched as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, his jaw clenched in frustration. The carefully maintained facade of control was cracking, just slightly.

He turned me around to face him, his touch gentler now. Reaching up, he caught a drop of water as it fell from my damp hair onto my cheek. "Get some rest," he said, his voice softening. "And dry your hair properly. Your immune system is weaker during your period—I don't want you catching a cold."

The tenderness in his gesture made my heart ache. These moments of genuine care were the most confusing—when he showed the person he could have been, had possession not consumed him.

He straightened his tie, his movements precise and measured as he collected himself before walking to the door of my bedroom. Only when I heard it close behind him did I allow my shoulders to sag, releasing the tension I had been holding. In the mirror, my reflection looked pale and small, water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders.

Thank god, I thought, pressing a hand against my stomach where my secret grew, still safely hidden. The lie about my period had worked—for now. But I knew Herman well enough to know this reprieve was temporary. Eventually, he would notice the changes in my body, the shifts in my habits. And when that happened...

I pushed the thought away and reached for my hairdryer. The sooner I followed his instructions, the less likely he was to return to check on me. The mechanical whir of the dryer filled the bathroom, drowning out my thoughts, and I focused on the simple, repetitive motions. One thing at a time. That was all I could manage right now.

The warm air was almost soothing when a soft knock interrupted my routine. "Maeve?" Bridget's voice carried through the door. "May I come in?"

I quickly switched off the dryer. "Of course."

She entered with that gentle smile that always made me feel guilty — guilty for not being her real daughter, guilty for lying, guilty for sleeping with her son. Without a word, she took the hairdryer from my hand and began running her fingers through my damp hair, sectioning it carefully. The tender gesture brought unexpected tears to my eyes.

"Let me do this for you," she said softly, turning the dryer on low. The warm air and gentle tug of the brush were soothing, reminding me of easier times. For a few precious moments, I could almost pretend I was really her daughter, that everything was normal.

When my hair was nearly dry, she met my eyes in the mirror. "About the health check-up..."

My stomach clenched. "Mom, I—"

"I know it's hard, sweetheart. But you need to let go of Eugene." Her eyes were full of sympathy. "Especially now that Kayla is pregnant."

The words hit me like a physical blow, though I kept my face carefully neutral. Pregnant. My mind reeled behind the mask of composure I had perfected over the years. Eugene and Kayla have... they have actually... After everything Herman had orchestrated to push them together, after that drugged night that destroyed both our lives, Eugene had actually developed feelings for her? The thought sent waves of nausea through me that had nothing to do with my own condition.

"When?" I asked softly, proud of how steady I kept my voice.

"About eight weeks along," Bridget replied, smoothing my hair for one last time.

"I'll need your insurance card to schedule the appointment," she continued after a moment, her hand warm on my shoulder.

The mention of documents sent me spiraling into memories I had tried so hard to suppress. That desperate attempt to escape three years ago—the bus ticket hidden in my shoe, the small bag of essentials, and the chilling moment when Herman's hand clamped around my arm at the station. What followed was a year of hell: confined to a suite in his high-rise penthouse, my world reduced to four walls and his domineering presence. Every visit a reminder that my body belonged to him, every touch both a punishment and a claim. When I finally broke, finally submitted, he took every piece of identification I owned—a bureaucratic collar that bound me to him.

"They're... at the office," I lied, the words ashen in my mouth. "I needed them for some HR paperwork."

"Oh." She looked disappointed but unsuspicious. "Well, bring them home tomorrow, okay? Your health is important."

I nodded mechanically, knowing Herman would never release those documents. They were locked away somewhere with all my other freedoms, and asking for them would only awaken his suspicions.

What kind of toll would I have to pay to get them back? The mere thought sent shivers down my spine.