Isabella’s POV
“I don’t want to eat seafood.”
Then, as if a sudden thought occurred to him, Vincent shifted his tone, “Oh, right. You probably shouldn’t have the sashimi. I just remembered you’re allergic or something?”
“Sorry, Isabella,” Rosa shot me a glance. “I’ve been craving sashimi ever since I got pregnant,” she added with a slight shrug. “But if you’re not in the mood for seafood, we can always switch to another restaurant. I guess.”
Vincent hesitated as he looked at me, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “Well, how about we go and let Rosa pick whatever she wants, then I’ll take you to the restaurant you like?”
I glanced between them. Vincent’s insistence felt off, and Rosa’s feigned casual concern only made me feel more exposed.
I stayed silent, my quiet refusal hanging in the air. Was he going to leave with me now that he remembered I hated seafood?
But as the moments stretched, Vincent said nothing. His gaze flickered between Rosa and me, hesitation written all over his face.
My patience wore thin. Without another word, I turned and hailed a cab. “Forget it. I’m going back to the house to eat.”
Vincent’s voice followed, sharp with irritation rather than concern. “Isabella, don’t make a scene. We’re in public.”
I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I pulled open the car door and, before slipping inside, threw one last parting shot over my shoulder.
“Enjoy your dinner.”
Then I got in and slammed the door shut before Vincent could say another word. The cab driver barely had time to ask where I was headed before I barked out the address of the mansion. My hands clenched into fists on my lap, and my heart pounded in my chest—not just from anger, but from something deeper. Something uglier.
Vincent hadn’t followed me. He hadn’t even tried.
That should’ve told me everything I needed to know.
I was Vincent’s wife—his pregnant wife—but ever since he’d made up mind to protect Rosa’s baby, my baby and me became invisible to his eyes.
This baby had once been my hope, my dream, after years of waiting.
But now? Now, I don’t think so. I had made a mistake.
I never should’ve had this child if I’d known it would be born into a family like this—a family where the father gives more attention to the other child than his own baby.
Vincent had returned to our mansion just when I thought I could finally get some rest, his eyebrows furrowed, clearly troubled by something.
He dropped to his knees in front of me as soon as he saw me and, looking as if he was explaining a grand, noble cause, said, “Babe, don’t be mad at me, okay?”
From what Vincent had told me, he’d been ambushed by Rosa, too. He’d been in his car, on the phone negotiating an arms deal with Africa, when Rosa had shown up, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
He had no choice but to comfort her. After all, they’d grown up together—she was his childhood sweetheart and her parents were friends to Vincent’s parents too.
She’d told him that if her parents found out about the pregnancy, they would pressure her into aborting it. She wanted to keep her baby.
Vincent couldn’t let that happen to her, so he agreed to let her say he was the father, at least for now. Apparently, when Rosa’s parents heard about it, they weren’t upset at all.
