Chapter 32 Knowing Smile

Chapter 32 Knowing Smile
Chapter 32 — Susan’s POV

I was in the nursery, gently rocking my baby in my arms. The soft hum of the air conditioner and the muted sound of the city outside were the only companions to the quiet that had filled the house for weeks. I had grown used to this solitude, this heavy silence that often felt like it was pressing against my chest. My body ached, my arms were sore, but holding my child, feeling the warmth of their small body against mine, it was the only thing that kept me going.

The sound of the door opening made me tense. I didn’t need to look. I knew that precise, deliberate step. That sharp voice.

“Baby mother,” Tabitha said, her tone smooth, sweet—but every syllable was laced with poison.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I continued to rock my child gently, pretending not to hear.

“How are you doing?” she continued, her words sliding closer, as if she were leaning over my shoulder, trying to invade the space I had carved out for myself and my baby.

I finally looked at her, my expression calm. “I’m fine,” I said simply. My voice carried no anger, no fear. It was flat, neutral, the kind of voice someone used when they refused to give their opponent any reaction.

Her lips curved into a smile. A slow, knowing smile that made my skin crawl. “You know, I’ve always cherished children,” she said softly. “And yours… oh, your little one is precious. I will cherish him like he’s mine. But…” She paused, letting the word hang in the air like a blade. “Once I am pregnant, things will change. I’ll have to make room for my child. After all, my son has to inherit everything, don’t you think?”

My fingers tightened slightly around the baby, just enough for her to notice, maybe not. But I didn’t speak. I let her words wash over me, knowing she had no idea I was recording every single word on my phone, safely hidden in my pocket. Every smirk, every cruel intent, every single detail—evidence for the day I would need it.

“You…” she said, tilting her head. “Do you understand what this means? You leave here, and your child… your precious baby…” Her voice softened, almost mocking, “…could be thrown out. My son’s future depends on it. And you…” She leaned closer, her hand hovering near my shoulder, “you will just have to accept it.”

I kept my composure. My voice didn’t rise. My face didn’t betray my fury. I simply said, “Tabitha… please. I know I might have offended you in some way or another. But I beg you… when I finally leave here, please take care of my child. Do not do anything to harm them.”

Her laughter was soft but venomous, curling around the walls of the room. “Now,” she said, “now you can beg. You see, no one ever plays games with me. I always win.”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I continued to rock my baby, letting her words float around me. Inside, my mind was racing, plotting, analyzing every nuance of her voice and her threats. She had power, yes. But I had something stronger: a plan, and patience.

She leaned closer, her eyes glinting. “Well, I would want you to… crawl.”

I frowned slightly, unsure at first, but she waved her hand wickedly, and I realized she meant figuratively. She wanted to see fear. Submission. She wanted me to show weakness, to break.

I smiled faintly to myself, the kind of smile that could have been mistaken for surrender—but it was anything but.

Just then, we both heard it: footsteps. Deliberate, heavy, familiar. A chill ran down my spine. The tension in the room shifted.

Lucien.

Tabitha’s eyes widened slightly, and she fell backward dramatically, pretending to trip. Her showy act was meant to trap me, to make it seem as if I had done something—anything—that would provoke him.

I froze, gripping my baby just a little tighter. My heart pounded in my chest. I could hear Lucien’s steps quicken, the familiar sound of his control and authority filling the hall outside the nursery door.

The door swung open, and there he was. Lucien, towering, sharp, with an unreadable expression. His eyes immediately found Tabitha on the floor. My stomach twisted, knowing his instincts would lean toward her first.

“Susan!” he barked, his voice strong, urgent. “What have you done to her?”

I didn’t answer. I held my child, keeping them close to me, letting the storm of my emotions swirl silently beneath the calm surface. My lips pressed together, my eyes fixed on Lucien’s, trying to convey all the unspoken words: Don’t believe her. This is not who I am.

Tabitha, on the other hand, twisted her body subtly, ensuring her performance looked convincing. She wanted him to see her as the victim and me as the aggressor. Her eyes met mine for a brief second, and I caught the faintest glimmer of her cruel satisfaction.

Lucien’s voice softened slightly, still commanding, still dangerous. “Answer me, Susan. What have you done?”

I finally spoke, my voice quiet but steady. “I did nothing, Lucien. She fell on her own. I didn’t touch her.”

His gaze shifted between us, and I could see a flicker of doubt cross his eyes. But it was fleeting. He stepped closer, his attention still on Tabitha, who was performing flawlessly.

“This is your last mistake,” he said suddenly, his voice calm but cutting, like ice on skin. “Next time, I won’t listen to explanations.”

I swallowed hard, letting the words sink into me. His calm authority was far more terrifying than any anger he had ever shown. It was a reminder that his control extended beyond punishment, that even without shouting or slapping, he could dictate the rules of this house—and my life.

And in that moment, I realized something painfully clear.

He didn’t care if I was humiliated. He didn’t care if I was broken. His concern was for the child. Nothing more.

My chest ached. My heart burned. But beneath the pain, something shifted. A quiet, resolute fire ignited.

I whispered to myself, barely audible: I will not rely on him anymore. I will not allow my child to be controlled by fear. I will protect us, no matter what.

Lucien turned his attention back to Tabitha, still furious in a contained way, and carried her out of the room, leaving me alone with the soft weight of my child and the heavy knowledge of the truth.

And in the silence that followed, I smiled faintly.

I had a plan now.

I had a secret now.

And I was ready.

For the first time in months, I felt a sense of control, calm, and determination that no one—not Lucien, not Tabitha, not anyone—could touch.

Because from now on, I was not just surviving.

I was planning my victory.