Vanessa stood over her in a burgundy dress, perfectly styled, pointing down.
“If you don’t finish, you stay here.”
Sebastian’s chest tightened painfully.
“Enough.”
His voice came out colder than he expected.
Vanessa turned quickly. In a single second, her face transformed. Hardness melted into fragile sweetness.
“Sebastian… it’s not what it looks like.”
He didn’t look at her.
He looked at his daughter.
Lily slowly lifted her face. There was no tantrum in her eyes. No stubbornness. Only relief… and a fear too old for a seven-year-old.
Sebastian knelt and lifted her carefully. She felt cold. Too light. She wrapped her arms around his neck with desperate force.
“What is going on?” he asked quietly.
“I’m trying to help her,” Vanessa said, wounded. “She’s too thin. You’re never here. I handle everything. It’s hard, Sebastian — you don’t know how hard it is with a child like this.”
He cut her off with a look.
“Don’t ever speak about my daughter that way.”
Vanessa lowered her gaze — then played her next card.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words fell heavy between them.
Lily clung tighter.
Sebastian didn’t respond. He carried Lily inside, gave her water, wrapped her in a blanket. Her fingers kept shaking.
That night, he didn’t argue.
Not because he believed Vanessa.
But because he finally understood he was dealing with someone who knew how to perform.
At 11:30 p.m., he heard footsteps in the hallway.
He cracked open his office door and watched.
Vanessa was leading Lily by the wrist.
Toward the garden.
Toward the same storage room.
Sebastian felt something inside him break.
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