Chapter 3

EMMA'S POV

No. Telling him would cause a lot, and I wasn't ready to handle any problems.

I knew telling Sebastian about my pregnancy now would only throw fuel onto an already blazing fire. The timing was all wrong. 

I was only three weeks pregnant so I couldn't be sure. Besides, I stubbornly convinced myself that he’d notice me eventually. He’ll take the time to see how I feel or behave. 

Maybe then, when his attention wasn’t so divided and was only on me, I’d share my news. For now, though, I had to keep it to myself. 

The days with Ava in the house were agonizing; it was like living in hell. She was everywhere: in the kitchen and the living room.

Everywhere I went, she was there, and it felt like she’d claimed the role of mistress of the house. Meanwhile, I was reduced to something unimportant, an extra. She made me feel like I was a burden to her and Sebastian, even though I was his wife.

When Sebastian left for work every morning, I dreaded being alone with her. I liked it. It felt like I was with a child that wouldn't stop bothering me. I loved children, but this was a grown adult, an annoying one even.

I needed an escape, and all I could think about was painting.

I’d once been an artist, well, a fine art student, back in college when my life still felt like my own. Painting had always been my refuge, my way of finding peace in chaos. 

But after marrying Sebastian, I’d given up so much: studio invitations, gallery opportunities, and even my ambitions. The family had become my priority. His priority. But now, with everything not going my way, I picked up the paintbrush again, hoping painting would bring me the peace I hoped for.

That afternoon, I set up my easel in the living room, enjoying the scent of the paint that had already filled the living room. 

My pounding heart immediately stopped and began beating slowly, bringing a smile to my face. I began painting against the Canva, drawing different shapes that came to mind.

Ava, meanwhile, lounged lazily on the sofa, one hand resting on her swollen belly like something would happen soon and she needed to protect her baby.  

“Emma,” she said, not even bothering to look at me. “Water. Now.” Like I was some servant waiting at her beck and call.

I didn’t even look up. “You can get it yourself,” I replied coldly, focusing on the flower petal I was painting.  

Her tone changed to the one I was familiar with. “I’m pregnant, in case you forgot. I shouldn’t be moving around too much.”  

I sighed, setting my brush down. “You seem perfectly capable of getting up when Sebastian’s home, so I am sure you can get the water yourself.”  

Ava stood, waddling dramatically over to my easel. She leaned in close, her tone sharper. “Pour me some water, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”  

I turned to face her, sighing as I pinched the space between my eyebrows. “Ava, I’m tolerating you living in my house out of respect for my husband. But don’t mistake that for weakness. I won’t tolerate you misbehaving here, ever. So, use the same energy you used to walk here to get the water yourself.”  

Her face squeezed into an ugly frown, but before she could reply, the front door opened, and Sebastian walked in.

And then, in a single horrifying instant, Ava did what I didn't expect—something you'd only see in movies.

She grabbed the nearest container of paint and splashed it across herself, shrieking loudly and making me stand up hurriedly. Was she crazy?

“Ava, what the fuck?” I yelled out, but she didn't seem to have other things in mind. 

Sebastian hurried towards us, his eyes widened as he took in the scene, Ava’s paint-streaked clothes, her trembling hands, her pitiful expression.

“Ava, what happened?” He asked loudly as he quickly picked up a towel I'd brought to use after painting to wipe the paint off her.

“Sebastian!” she cried, staggering back as if I’d physically attacked her. “I was just looking at Emma’s painting, and she threw paint at me!”  

I froze, my eyes wide as I stared at her. This could not be happening, I thought this only happened in movies. “What?!” I exclaimed, stepping forward. “That’s not what happened! She did that to herself!”  

And then he turned to me, his face clouded with disappointment. 

“Emma,” he said, his voice low, filled with disappointment. “How could you?”  

My heart dropped. “You think I, ” I stopped myself, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You think I’d do something like this? To her?”  

“She’s pregnant, Emma,” he said quietly, as if that explained everything. He didn't believe me.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My chest felt tight like something was squeezing my heart tightly. “And I’m your wife,” I shot back, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and heartbreak and watery eyes. “Why did you take her side without listening to my side of the story?”  

Sebastian’s face softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. He stepped toward me, reaching out as if to comfort me. “Emma, I didn’t mean—”  

“Don’t,” I said quietly, stepping back. “Don’t touch me. I need to be alone.”  

Without another word or waiting for their response, I turned and walked to our bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. My hands were shaking, my chest heaving, mostly because I was angry and also because I wanted to cry. 

I sat down at the dresser, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my hair slightly messy, and my eyes red-rimmed and watery.  

I reached for my skincare products, hoping a quick skincare routine would calm me down. Slowly, I massaged the cream into my skin, but no amount of face cream could erase the ache in my chest or the doubt in my mind and heart. 

I loved Sebastian. But this whole situation? Way, way too much to deal with right now.

My mind drifted off to what she had called me when she first moved here: a replacement. Was I really a replacement for him?

The doorknob turned, and I caught Sebastian’s reflection in the mirror as he stepped into the room. His expression was conflicted, his eyes filled with something I wasn't sure about regret? Guilt? Uncertainty?  

I stayed seated, my hands resting in my lap. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice calm but distant.  

“Emma,” he began, his tone gentle, “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” 

Yeah, well, he said that. But it felt like the same old story, always backing her up, never me. His wife. What was so damn special about her?

I didn’t look at him directly. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, eyes boring into his in the glass, waiting for something real. Anything real. “Whose child is she carrying, Sebastian? Whose?”