Chapter 25 He only get hardened

Chapter 25 He only get hardened

Chapter 25 — He Only Got Hardened

Susan’s POV

The room smelled of medicine and silence.

Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that presses against your chest until breathing feels like effort. Until even blinking feels loud.

My body still ached everywhere. Not just the obvious pain—there was a deeper one, buried inside my bones, inside places that words could not reach. I felt empty and heavy at the same time, like something had been taken from me even though my arms were full.

My baby slept beside me.

So small. So unaware.

His tiny fingers curled and uncurled as if he was holding onto something invisible. I watched him breathe, watched the rise and fall of his chest, and wondered how something so fragile could already be the center of a war I never agreed to fight.

I reached out and touched his hand softly.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “Mama is here.”

The door opened.

I didn’t turn my head.

I didn’t need to.

Lucien never entered a room quietly. Even when he didn’t make noise, his presence did. It always felt like the air shifted when he came in—like the room straightened itself for him.

“It’s time to go home,” he said.

His voice was calm. Flat. Controlled.

Like he was discussing a schedule. Like I hadn’t just given birth. Like my world hadn’t split open.

I slowly turned my head to look at him.

Home.

The word echoed strangely in my mind. It felt foreign. Heavy. Almost cruel.

“Which home?” I asked quietly.

My voice didn’t shake, but my chest did.

Lucien frowned slightly, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. As if the thought that I might question him hadn’t crossed his mind.

I swallowed hard. My throat burned.

“We are not married anymore,” I said, forcing the words out slowly. “So you can go yourself.”

The silence thickened.

The air turned cold.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, standing beside the bed, towering over me like a shadow. His presence felt heavier now, pressing down on me, on the bed, on the fragile space between me and my child.

“You don’t have a house to go to,” he said flatly.

Each word was precise. Sharp.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going with my child?”

My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

My child.

Not our child.

Not your baby.

My child—like ownership. Like property.

A broken laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. It sounded wrong, cracked, unfamiliar.

“So you finally said it out loud,” I whispered.

Lucien’s brows drew together, confusion flickering across his face.

I took a shaky breath. My hands trembled under the blanket.

“I heard you,” I said. “When I was pregnant. I heard you talking.”

My chest tightened as the memory returned—clear and painful.

“How you wanted to take my child away from me,” I continued. “How the baby belongs to you. How I was just… carrying something for you.”

My fingers curled into the sheet as I pushed the blanket away from my chest, exposing the truth between us.

“I’m giving you the chance now,” I said, my voice breaking despite my effort.

“You can take the child and leave.”

I looked at him fully now.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

The room went completely still.

Lucien froze.

For the first time since he walked in, something shifted in his eyes. Shock. Guilt. Maybe regret. Just for a second.

“Susan, I am—” he started.

His voice softened.

And for that one fragile second, hope stirred inside me.

I thought he would beg again.
I thought he would explain.
I thought he would say he was wrong.

I wanted that version of him more than I wanted air.

But pride is faster than love.

His face hardened.

His back straightened.

The softness vanished.

“The child is still small,” he said coldly.

“What kind of mother leaves her child when he’s just days old?”

The words struck me one by one, each one landing like a slap.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop.

“You can leave,” he continued, his tone final, absolute, “after he turns three.”

Three years.

The number echoed in my head.

Three years of watching my son grow under his control.
Three years of being monitored.
Three years of being reminded that the child was never truly mine.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of him. I would not give him that satisfaction.

My chest hurt so badly I thought I might collapse.

So this was it.

Not regret.
Not guilt.
Not love.

Control.

I looked down at my baby. He stirred slightly, his face peaceful, trusting. He didn’t know what had just been decided for him. He didn’t know how small and powerless his mother felt.

I pressed my lips together, holding back a sob.

Slowly… I nodded.

Lucien didn’t say anything else.

He turned and walked out, already expecting obedience. Already certain of his power.

When the door closed behind him, the tears finally came.

Silent ones.

I buried my face into the pillow so no one would hear. I cried for the life I thought I would have. I cried for the strength I didn’t have. I cried because I knew something inside me had broken—and it would never fully heal.

Later, a nurse came to help me. She avoided my eyes.

The maid said nothing.

No one asked me what I wanted.

I followed Lucien out of the hospital like a shadow. Into the car. Into the seat beside him.

The engine started.

As the car moved, I held my baby close and whispered inside my heart:

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you yet.

The city lights passed by outside the window, distant and cold.

And that was when the truth settled heavily inside me.

I didn’t go back with him because I wanted to.

I went back because I had no choice.

And that frightened me more than anything else.