Chapter 9

Lydia noticed Jessica had seen the ultrasound report in her hands.

She bit her lip and instinctively pulled the folder closer to her chest. "Jessica, don't get the wrong idea. Stanley and I—it's not what you think."

Her denial only made it worse. To Jessica, it sounded like a desperate attempt to cover up the obvious truth.

Stanley glanced at Jessica, but she remained silent.

"Jessica? Are you okay?" Lydia's voice, dripping with false concern, seemed to come from miles away—muffled and distorted.

Jessica heard nothing. Saw nothing clearly. All she knew was that she had to leave. Now. Immediately.

Watching Jessica's retreating figure, Lydia hesitated, her expression conflicted.

"Stanley, shouldn't we explain things to Jessica?" she asked softly, gazing up at him with wide, innocent eyes—though inwardly, she was certain he wouldn't bother.

Sure enough, Stanley dismissed the suggestion with a casual wave. "There's nothing to explain. I promised I'd take care of you and the baby. You have my word."

Stanley had been nothing short of accommodating since learning about her situation.

The moment he found out she was pregnant and abandoned by her wealthy patron, he'd arranged everything for her without hesitation.

Lydia rested a hand on her stomach, her lips curling into a cold smile.

'So what if Jessica is Mrs. Smith? Even carrying another man's child, I still have Stanley's unwavering support.'

Meanwhile, Jessica felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from her body. Her steps were unsteady, her legs barely holding her weight as she stumbled forward on autopilot. She didn't even notice when she collided with a nurse coming the other way.

"Jessica!"

The moment she stepped outside the hospital building, an urgent male voice called out behind her.

Before she could turn around, a violent wave of dizziness crashed over her. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed.

A pair of strong arms caught her just in time.

Chris held the woman in his arms—light as a feather, fragile as paper—his heart torn between anguish and fury.

He'd just received her latest test results. The cancer was spreading faster than he'd anticipated. He'd been rushing to find her when he saw her like this—hollow-eyed, swaying, barely conscious.

"What the hell happened to you? Look how pale you are!" he snapped, half-carrying, half-supporting her to a nearby bench. "Are you in pain again? How many times have I told you to rest?!"

Jessica slumped against the backrest, shaking her head weakly. She couldn't even form words.

Her eyes—once bright with life—were now dull and empty, like stagnant water with no light left in them.

The sight of her so broken and helpless made Chris's chest tighten painfully.

He shrugged off his white coat and draped it over her thin shoulders, his voice softening. "Let me take you home."

Jessica didn't refuse. She didn't have the strength to drive herself anyway.

The car ride was silent.

When they pulled up in front of the villa, Jessica reached for her seatbelt—but her phone buzzed with an incoming message.

She picked it up numbly. It was from Stanley's assistant.

[Ms. Watson, Mr. Smith requests your presence at a dinner tonight with Mr. Nguyen from Nguyen Group. The deal is at a critical stage. Your attendance is mandatory.]

Jessica stared at the words on the screen. Then, slowly, she smiled—a smile that never reached her eyes, leaving only bitter desolation and mockery in its wake.

His mistress was pregnant with another man's child, and yet he could still send his wife out to schmooze clients without a second thought.

To him, she really was nothing more than a convenient tool.

She typed back; [Understood.]

One last job. One last display of professionalism as Smith Entertainment's PR Director.

Chris noticed her expression and asked worriedly, "Who was that? Work? You can't possibly go anywhere in your condition."

"I'm fine." Jessica pocketed her phone and forced a pale smile. "Dr. Scott, thank you for the ride."

Her distant, polite tone erected an invisible wall between them—shutting out his concern, shutting out everyone.

---

Night fell. The city lit up.

Inside a lavish private dining room at an upscale restaurant, the air was thick with alcohol fumes and heavy perfume—nauseating.

Jessica had changed into an elegant champagne-colored suit. Her makeup was flawless. If you didn't look closely, you'd never know she was being ravaged by the side effects of her medication, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Her stomach churned violently. Nausea clawed at her throat. She could only suppress it through slow, deliberate breaths.

"Ms. Watson, you're so young and accomplished! Come, let me toast to you!" A portly middle-aged man—Mr. Nguyen raised his glass, his beady eyes roaming lecherously over her body.

Stanley sat at the head of the table, his expression indifferent as he watched the scene unfold. He seemed to be waiting to see how she would deflect the drink with her usual charm and wit.

PR Director Jessica Watson was known for holding her liquor and talking her way out of anything. She'd never lost face at a business dinner.

Everyone expected her to laugh it off with some clever excuse.

Instead, Jessica simply looked at Mr. Nguyen. Without a word, she picked up the full glass of baijiu in front of her, tilted her head back, and downed it in one go.

The burning liquid seared her throat and stomach like acid. But her face remained expressionless. She set the glass down, her voice flat and emotionless. "Mr. Nguyen. I've finished."

The room fell silent for a beat.

Mr. Nguyen blinked in surprise—then burst into booming laughter. "Ms. Watson, you're a woman of your word! Excellent! Let's have another!"

He gestured for someone to refill her glass.

Jessica didn't refuse. Didn't hesitate. She picked up the glass again and drank it down.

One glass. Two. Three.

She stopped speaking. Stopped smiling. Just repeated the same mechanical motion—lifting the glass, draining it, setting it down.

As if it weren't liquor burning through her insides, but water.

Stanley's brow furrowed.

He stared at the silent woman drinking herself numb, an unfamiliar irritation gnawing at him.

Something was wrong.

This wasn't Jessica.

She wasn't the woman who used to pout and wheedle her way out of drinking. She wasn't the woman who'd charm clients with wit and deflection.

She was a hollow shell. Letting herself be force-fed alcohol. Eyes vacant. No emotion. No resistance.

'What is this? Another act? Self-destruction to guilt-trip me into caring?'

But what he saw wasn't the familiar wounded-puppy routine. It was something far more disturbing—a quiet, deliberate self-annihilation.

And it unsettled him in a way he couldn't name.

"Enough."

When Mr. Nguyen moved to pour her a fourth glass, Stanley's cold voice cut through the room.

He rose from his seat, walked over to Jessica, and looked down at her with icy disdain. "If you've had your fill, get out. Stop embarrassing yourself."