I returned to an empty house.

The remnants of the previous night's dinner still sat on the table. I hadn't finished cleaning them.

Vincent and Hector hadn't come back yet.

I walked into Hector's room, glanced around, and grabbed the gift I had carefully chosen for him.

On my way out, I tossed the food and placed the gift right on top of the trash.

If they didn't care, why should I? Whoever liked it could take it away.

While sipping on my soup, I heard the front door open.

Hector trudged in, backpack slung over his shoulder, irritation written all over his face.

He came over awkwardly, hand outstretched. "Where's my gift?"

I barely glanced up from the comedy show on TV. "Oh, sorry, I forgot to buy one."

His expression darkened. "I knew it! You don't care about me at all! You're the worst mom ever! You're nothing compared to Ms. Jensen!"

His ability to switch moods so fast reminded me of his father.

I looked at him seriously. "When I gave birth to you, I almost died. I've never let you go without anything you've wanted. I don't owe you anything. And if you hate me because I made you do your homework, fine. From now on, you won't have to do it anymore."

He blinked, disbelief washing over him. "Really?"

When I nodded, a smug grin spread across his face.

"I knew it! You're just lazy. You can't even teach me. Grandma told me you only have a high school diploma, but Dad and Ms. Jensen went to college. You're the dumbest one here! No wonder Grandma never likes you!"

Education had always been my sore spot.

No one remembered that I had given up my scholarship for him. I had been the smarter one, but the school could only support one of us.

I knew Vincent's mother never liked me, always thinking I was beneath her son—a poor orphan with nothing to offer. I had even stood in the rain, buying her medicine, hoping to win her approval.

Only after I gave birth to Hector did she treat me a little better.

But I never imagined she'd poison my son against me.

The way Hector glared at me, as if I were his enemy, made me feel exhausted beyond words.

Later that night, Vincent stumbled in, drunk.

He collapsed on the couch, and a piece of fabric fell from his pocket.

I picked it up, but Vincent's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. His grip was tight, painfully tight.

"What are you snooping around for now?" he growled.

Seeing me frown in pain, he let go, and the scarf fell to the floor.

"I was just going to ask if you wanted it washed. But fine, deal with it yourself."

His breath reeked with alcohol, and it almost made me sick.

Vincent stared at me, his gaze dark and heavy.

"Andrea, just get rid of your wild thoughts. That scarf is from a work event. If you have questions, ask me directly instead of digging around and starting fights."

He used to have clear boundaries, back when Layla wasn't in the picture.

But since she arrived, those lines had been crossed again and again.

I had tried everything—screaming, crying, being jealous. None of it worked.

Now, looking back, I felt foolish for ever trying.

I turned to go. "I'm not overthinking anything. You can check the security cameras if you want. Just stay here. I'm going upstairs."

Just as I was about to leave, Vincent yanked me back, pulling me into his arms.

The overwhelming stench of alcohol mixed with a faint whiff of roses—Layla's scent. The combination was nauseating, and before I could stop myself, I threw up right there.

Vincent's face twisted in disgust.

I wiped my mouth and looked up at him, suddenly smiling faintly.

"Vincent, I'm pregnant."