Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 51: You’re Cold

Present time...

Matthew

I pour a generous splash of whiskey into my glass, watching as the amber liquid swirls and catches the dim light.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, triggered by the uninvited memory that invades my thoughts. What a liar she had been.

But it wasn’t solely that one lie. It was the web of deception that followed, each tightening the trap around me.

And the biggest one was...

I throw my head back and toss the whiskey in the back of my throat, welcoming the burn that follows.

No, I won’t think about that now. It was in the past, I tell myself that.

Back then, I had lost all control over Sarah and everything else. But now, I am in control and I won’t let her play me.

I set the glass down with deliberate care, fingers lingering on its smooth surface and wince as I remember again.

Pregnant. The word keeps repeating in my head like a damn curse.

I married her because I wanted to control the narrative this time and make her suffer. But her being pregnant now might change everything. Sarah always knew how to manipulate a situation to her advantage, and this—this felt like her masterpiece. Was it even true? Or just another carefully crafted scheme to keep me bound to her?

But it doesn’t make any sense. She already has me as her husband, so why would she fake being pregnant now? To gain sympathy? To win my love?

God, I am so confused!

I stand up suddenly, feeling the need to see her.

Our bedroom door is slightly ajar, so I push it open.

"Sarah?" My voice sounds foreign in the emptiness of the room.

She is not here.

"Oh, Matthew."

I turn to face Marishka, who stands there holding a basket of laundry. "Are you looking for Sarah?" she asks.

"Yes, where is she?" I try to keep my voice steady.

"I saw her going to the back garden. She said she needed to go get some fresh air," Marishka offers.

I nod curtly before I turn and head toward the back garden. The cool air hits my face as I step outside, the faint smell of flowers and fresh earth mixing with the tension in my chest. My eyes scan the garden, searching for any sign of her.

And then I see her.

Sarah is standing by the rose bush, her back to me, fingers grazing the petals.

I walk to her slowly until she looks up at me.

I stop in my tracks. Her green eyes are sparkling with unshed tears, and they stir something in my chest. She had been crying.

"Hey," I say lamely.

"Hey," she responds, quickly wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She forces a smile that doesn’t reach those green eyes. "I needed some air."

I stand there awkwardly. The scent of roses fills my nostrils and I feel kind of sick.

"You’ve been crying," I state flatly, as if accusing her of something.

Sarah turns back to the roses, her fingers finding a petal that’s beginning to wilt. "Maybe it’s the hormones. You know...from my ’fake’ pregnancy."

"I am not saying it’s fake this time. What I said was, it’s not mine," I say cruelly.

I watch the way her shoulders shake, though she doesn’t cry, doesn’t even let the tears fall.

"That’s what you think?" Her voice is small and hurt, but there’s an edge to it that I didn’t expect. "That I am pregnant with someone else’s child?"

No, I don’t really think that.

"Come inside the house. It’s getting chilly," I say instead of answering her question.

She doesn’t immediately move, her fingers still lingering on the wilted petal.

I feel a strange tightness in my chest, a pull that tells me I should apologize, or at least soften the blow. But I don’t. Not yet.

She glances at me, and for a moment, her eyes search mine with a vulnerability that makes my chest tighten further. I can see her weighing something, deciding whether she’s going to fight me or give in.

"I think I will stay out here for a while," she says quietly. "You can go inside if you want."

I don’t move.

"You know what’s funny, Matthew? When I first saw those two lines on the test, I was terrified. I figured you’d be angry. But then for a moment—just a moment—I imagined you’d be happy," she says, not looking at me.

The wind picks up, sending her hair across her face. She doesn’t brush it away.

"I’ve never been with anyone else," she continues, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Not since we met. Not once."

I shove my hands in my pockets. "Why would you think I’d be happy, Sarah? What could possibly give you the impression that I’d want to have a child with someone I hate?" I say.

Sarah winces. Her face loses color, but her green eyes ignite with something fierce.

She turns fully toward me now, one hand unconsciously resting on her stomach.

"I never thought you’d be overjoyed," she says. "But I didn’t think you’d accuse me of—" Her voice breaks, and she takes a steadying breath. "I didn’t think you’d deny your own child."

She steps closer, close enough that I can see the constellation of freckles across her nose. "You can doubt me all you want, Matthew, but deep down, you know the truth."

"Is this how you are getting back at me?" I ask.

"Getting back at you?" Her voice rises. "No one asked you to come inside me when we make love, Matthew."

"We don’t make love, Sarah. I fuck you. There’s a difference," I snap.

Hurt flashes in her green eyes before she shakes her head. "You can call it whatever you want," she continues, her voice steadier now. "But this baby exists. Your child exists. And no amount of hatred is going to change that."

"Come inside," I say again, running a hand through my hair. "I don’t want to stand here and argue with you all day."

"I didn’t ask you to," she says defiantly. "Like I said, you can go if you want."

Stubborn woman. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"Fine. Freeze out here if you want," I snap and hurry back inside.

I slam the backdoor behind me, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. My hands are shaking with anger—or is it something else?

I can’t help but look out the window again. Sarah is still there, her slender figure now hunched against the growing chill.

Why the hell is she insisting on being cold?

"Dammit," I mutter under my breath.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m climbing the stairs to the linen closet, yanking open the door with more force than necessary. The shelves are meticulously organized—Marishka’s doing, no doubt. I grab the thickest blanket I can find, a soft, plush thing.

I stand there for a moment, blanket clutched in my hands, battling with myself. I should just let her freeze. That’d teach her to be stubborn and defiant.

I go downstairs and find Marishka.

"Marishka." I clear my throat. "Sarah is still outside. Could you..." I thrust the blanket toward her, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. "Could you take this to her? It’s cold."

"Of course, Mr. Matthew," she says, taking the blanket from me. "Maybe I will make some hot chocolate. Sarah used to love it as a kid. Still does, in fact. Would you like to join us?"

I shake my head. "No thanks. I will be in my study. Just don’t let her catch a cold."