I don’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, I smell it again... that sweet, cloying scent that doesn’t belong on him, that shouldn’t be there, that makes my stomach turn and my chest ache in equal measure.

So I don’t close my eyes.

I just lie on the bed in my old room staring at the ceiling, hand pressed against my stomach, trying to breathe through the way everything hurts.

The baby moves occasionally.

Small flutters that remind me this isn’t just about me, that I can’t fall apart completely because there’s someone else depending on me to hold it together.

I press my hand more firmly against the bump.

Four months.

Halfway there.

Halfway to becoming a parent with someone who was apparently with someone else tonight while I sat here waiting to tell him good news.

The thought makes my throat close up again.

I turn onto my side, pull my knees up as much as the bump allows, and try to make myself smaller.

It doesn’t help, nothing helps, the room is too quiet, too empty, too full of the absence of everything I thought was building between us.

Morning comes slowly.

I hear movement in the house around six, Mrs. Wen starting her day, the distant sound of someone in the kitchen, the estate waking up around me.

I don’t move to get up, or do anything except lie there and try to figure out how I’m supposed to face today.

How I’m supposed to face him.

There’s a knock on the door around seven-thirty.

"Young Master?" Mrs. Wen’s voice, careful. "Breakfast is ready."

I don’t answer, can’t make my voice work properly.

After a moment, her footsteps retreat down the hall.

My phone is on the nightstand, I reach for it without thinking, then stop.

What am I checking for?

A message from Bael that isn’t going to come? An explanation that he clearly has no intention of giving?

I grab it anyway, no new messages, the email from yesterday is still there.

The excitement from yesterday feels like it happened to someone else, like it belongs to a version of me that didn’t know yet, that was still stupid enough to think this marriage meant something.

I set the phone down and close my eyes.

Five days until the first working session, five days to pull myself together enough to show up professionally, to collaborate with someone who placed first, to pretend everything is fine when everything is very clearly not fine.

I can do that, I have to do that.

This opportunity is mine, earned on my own merit, and I’m not letting it get destroyed just because I was dumb enough to catch feelings for someone who never asked for them.

The resolution sits heavy in my chest.

I get up, shower in the bathroom, avoiding my reflection in the mirror because I don’t want to see what I look like right now.

The water is scalding hot but it doesn’t wash away the memory of that smell, it doesn’t erase the way my stomach turned when Bael walked through the door last night.

I get dressed in clothes from the closet I haven’t opened in months, they fit differently now, tighter around the bump, loose everywhere else where I’ve lost weight from morning sickness and stress.

I look like someone who’s falling apart.

Good thing I’m not planning to see anyone today.

***

I make it to the study without encountering anyone.

The house is large enough that avoiding people is possible if you’re strategic about timing and routes. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, breathing.

Made it.

My laptop is still on the desk from yesterday, still open to the email I read a dozen times before everything fell apart.

I sit down and stare at it.

Bi-weekly working sessions at Dingshan headquarters (Mondays and Thursdays, 10 AM - 2 PM)

Monday is in five days.

I need to prepare and review my designs, anticipate questions, and figure out how to present my ideas professionally to people who actually know what they’re doing.

I need to stop thinking about last night.

I open my design files, stare at the circulation diagrams I spent weeks perfecting, the lines blur together.

I close the laptop.

I can’t do this right now, can’t focus when my brain keeps circling back to the same questions... where exactly was he, what exactly did they do, how long has this been going on, was I just convenient while he waited for Xue Lian to be available...

Stop.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see spots, this isn’t productive, this isn’t helping.

I need to compartmentalize, to put this in a box and deal with it later when I have the capacity, when the competition collaboration isn’t starting in five days, when I’m not four months pregnant and nauseous and exhausted.

My phone buzzes and I look at it automatically.

Ling Yue: Hey! Coffee this week? Want to catch up

Casual.

Like the world didn’t fundamentally shift last night.

I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: *Maybe next week? Busy right now*

Not a lie.

I am busy.

Busy falling apart, busy trying to figure out how to exist in the same house as someone I can’t look at right now, busy preparing for a professional collaboration that should be exciting but just feels like another thing I have to get through.

Another buzz.

*Ling Yue: No problem! Let me know when you’re free*

I set the phone down and lean back in the chair, the study is quiet, peaceful, almost.

A space that doesn’t smell like Xue Lian, doesn’t carry memories of last night, doesn’t remind me of how stupid I was to think proximity meant anything.

I could stay here and work on my designs, prepare for Monday, avoid everyone until I’m capable of pretending to be functional.

That’s not a good plan.

But it’s a plan.

***

Lunch doesn’t happen.

Mrs. Wen knocks again around noon, but I call through the door that I’m not hungry.

It’s not entirely a lie... my stomach is still unsettled, still reacting to the memory of last night even though the actual scent is long gone.

I try to work, pull up the sustainability integration section of my design, the part the email specifically mentioned as a strength.

Read through my own notes.

None of it registers.

My brain won’t cooperate, won’t focus on anything except the loop of last night playing over and over... the smell, the non-answer, the way Bael looked at me like I was being unreasonable for asking.

That’s not your concern.

The words echo.

I close the laptop again, stand up, pace the length of the study.

This is ridiculous.

I’m letting this consume me when I should be preparing, should be excited, should be focusing on the fact that I placed second in a professional competition and have an incredible opportunity starting in less than a week.

But I can’t get past the hurt, can’t stop wondering if everything I thought was happening between us was just in my head, can’t figure out how to go back to normal when normal apparently meant nothing in the first place.

The baby moves.

I stop pacing, hand automatically going to my stomach.

"I know," I say quietly to the bump. "I know I need to get it together."

Another flutter, like agreement, or maybe just random fetal movement that I’m projecting meaning onto because I’m desperate for anything to make sense right now.

I sit back down at the desk, open the laptop one more time, force myself to actually look at the designs this time, to read through the circulation patterns and sustainability features and density solutions.

It’s good work, genuinely good.

That hasn’t changed just because everything else has fallen apart.

I can do this.

I can show up Monday and collaborate professionally and prove that I belong in those working sessions regardless of what’s happening in my personal life.

I spend the rest of the afternoon actually reviewing my work, making notes, and preparing questions I might need to answer during the collaboration.

It’s not great preparation, my focus keeps drifting.

But it’s something.

By the time evening comes, I’ve made it through most of the day without completely falling apart.

Small victory.

I’ll take it.

Dinner is another knock on the door that I don’t answer, Mrs. Wen leaves a tray outside, I wait until her footsteps fade before opening the door and bringing it inside.

The food is still warm, carefully prepared.

I eat mechanically, not tasting anything, just forcing myself to consume calories because the baby needs them even if I don’t want them.

My phone stays silent.

No messages from Bael, no explanation, no attempt to fix this, just... nothing.

Like last night didn’t happen, like I didn’t lock myself in a different room, like everything is fine.

I set the empty tray outside the door and close it again.

Lock it.

The bed is exactly as I left it this morning... covers tangled, pillow still dented from where I spent hours not sleeping.

I lie down and close my eyes.

Try not to think about the fact that this is my second night in this room, try not to wonder how many more there will be.

Try not to care that Bael hasn’t tried to find me, hasn’t knocked on this door, hasn’t done anything to indicate that my absence from our bedroom matters to him at all.