Chapter 2

Serena’s POV

Early Saturday morning, Julian called.

"I'm skipping the family dinner," he said over the line. "I'm coming over to spend the day with you."

Holding my phone, I couldn't speak for several seconds.

I truly thought Julian had finally made his choice.

At noon, he pushed open the studio door, carrying a box of pastries from the boutique bakery I loved.

He sat on the rug, unpacked the containers, poured me a warm drink, and asked gently if I had been overworking myself lately.

He added that as soon as this busy quarter wrapped up, he would take me on a trip abroad to unwind.

Leaning against his shoulder, I chewed on a bite of food that I could barely swallow, feeling as though eight years of silent heartbreak had finally paid off.

After lunch, the man leaned over to inspect my wedding floor plans. Pointing at the reception arch, he suggested the floral arrangements could be denser and that the lighting angles needed recalibration.

I smiled and nodded. But as I kept watching him, the smile froze on my face.

I asked casually, "Do you remember what I wore the first time we met?"

The man hesitated for a second, then offered an easy smile. "A white dress, right? You looked gorgeous."

The day we met, I had just walked off a dusty construction site covered in grime, wearing black cargo pants.

Then I said I was craving mango crepes.

The man stood up immediately, offering to run downstairs to buy some.

I have a life-threatening mango allergy. I had warned him at least a dozen times, and every single time, Julian confidently claimed he had it memorized.

That wasn't all. The way he held his paper cup was completely different. The curve of his lips when he smiled was off by an inch.

Most damning of all: last year, Julian had shielded me from a falling steel truss at a venue, leaving a two-inch jagged scar on his left elbow.

The left arm of the man standing in front of me was completely smooth. Not a single blemish.

I stood up and took a step back.

"You're not Julian. You're his brother."

Silence fell over the room.

The man slowly lowered his head and let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm Christian. Julian begged me to come in his place."

Julian had attended his high-society family banquet right on time with his wife and child, while sending his identical twin brother to keep me entertained. Playing both sides without sacrificing an inch.

Looking at that identical face, a wave of pure nausea hit my stomach.

This was a thousand times more disgusting than being stood up.

"Get out," I said.

Christian opened his mouth as if to explain, but found no words. He grabbed his coat and quietly left the studio.

The lock clicked shut.

I walked straight into the bathroom, retrieved the pregnancy test from the bottom cabinet, tore open the foil packet, and locked myself in a stall.

Five minutes later, two distinct pink lines stared back at me.

Sitting on the toilet lid, my fingers gripped the plastic stick until my knuckles turned stark white.

I splashed cold water on my face, threw on my coat, grabbed my ID and insurance card, and hailed a cab straight to the women's clinic.

Registration, blood draws, ultrasounds, checkups.

Even without him, I swore I would raise this baby on my own.

But the doctor's diagnosis delivered a crushing blow.

It was an ectopic pregnancy. I could not keep this child; carrying it any longer would kill me.

"Thank God you caught it early," the doctor sighed with pity.

I don't even remember how I managed to sign the emergency surgery consent forms.

I didn't utter a single useless word through the entire process, but my hand shook violently as the pen touched the paper.

I couldn't even protect my own child.

When I was discharged from the surgical recovery ward, it was already late afternoon. The sunlight outside was blinding.

Standing on the clinic steps, I cast one last look at the glass doors, then hailed a cab and drove away without looking back.

Julian didn't realize anything was wrong until three days later.

He called me repeatedly. I answered, but my voice was as flat and detached as a stranger's.

He canceled his evening meetings, sped across town, and pounded frantically on my studio door in the middle of the night.

I unlocked it.

Julian barged in, grabbed my hand, and began rambling at breakneck speed.

He claimed the family dinner had been unavoidable, that asking his brother to step in was a moment of sheer stupidity, and that he swore he was ending things with Vivian for good.

He pulled a commercial lease agreement from his briefcase, offering to upgrade me to a 2,000-square-foot luxury studio, promising to hand over all the wedding venue contracts under the Sterling Group exclusively to me.

He even claimed we could fly abroad and register our marriage in secret where no one could interfere.

Julian talked until his voice went hoarse.

Then he slammed a set of keys onto the desk, telling me he had purchased a riverfront penthouse in my name, insisting that I move in the moment our baby was born.

He shoved a black card into my hand, telling me to quit working and just focus on resting through the pregnancy.

Mid-sentence, Julian suddenly dropped to his knees.

His kneecap slammed hard against the sharp corner of the solid wood desk. He let out a muffled groan, but didn't bother checking the bruise. Instead, he shuffled forward on his knees until he reached my chair.

He pressed his entire face against my lower stomach.

His palms shook uncontrollably as he rested them over my belly, hesitating for two seconds before pressing firmly against me. His voice cracked with tears.

"I know you're pregnant."

"I want this baby. I swear I'll protect both of you."

"Once the baby is born, I'll take us overseas. We'll start fresh somewhere nobody knows our names."

Resting against my flat stomach, he babbled endlessly about our future—names for a boy, names for a girl, teaching our kid how to swim, planting an oak tree in the front yard.

Kneeling against my belly, he made countless promises about a future together.

He had no idea that my womb was already completely empty.

I let him hold my hands, listening to him with an expressionless face.

He had recycled these same promises for eight years. Always "later," never "now."

I raised a hand and gently patted Julian’s head, as if comforting a pitiful stranger.

"Go home," I said quietly. "I'm exhausted."

Julian looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He probably assumed I was finally softening. After repeating several more desperate promises, he reluctantly let himself out.

The second the front door clicked shut, my back slid down against the panel onto the floor.

I reached out and touched my flat stomach.

Clean, quiet, and completely empty.