The biting autumn wind whipped around Madeline Crawford as she clutched the hospital report, its stark words blurring through her tears. Pregnant. Three months married to Jeremy Whitman, the city's most coveted bachelor, and she carried his child. Yet, his scorn was a constant companion, a frigid counterpoint to the desperate hope she still clung to.

He hadn't picked up her call, nor replied to her timid text. He wouldn't be home tonight, she knew. Just like every other night since their forced wedding, a wedding born from a night she barely remembered, a red stain on white sheets, and a barrage of eager reporters. The Whitmans, fiercely protective of their reputation, had swiftly arranged the union, cementing her fate.

She was about to resign herself to another lonely night when the front door slammed open, rattling the quiet house. Jeremy. His presence filled the space, a storm cloud of frigid beauty. “Jeremy, you’re home,” she ventured, a small, fragile smile gracing her lips. But his gaze, drunk and venomous, sliced through her. He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, and flung her onto the sofa. “Madeline, do you like me that much? To the point that you climbed into my bed by using such despicable methods, huh?” His voice, though alluring, was a whip of mockery and hatred. Her face paled. “Jeremy, you’ve misunderstood me…” He scoffed, his eyes contemptuous. “Misunderstood you? Madeline, why are you still pretending?”