Chapter 77 When Desperation Wins
Brian didn’t even hesitate.
The message popped up while he was standing by the window of the temporary apartment, coffee cooling in his hand, city unfamiliar and quiet beneath him.
Damian:
I know this is a lot to ask. Please. I need Elena’s address. What country did she relocate to?
Brian read it once.
Then again.
He didn’t reply.
He watched the little read receipt appear under the message, felt a strange satisfaction bloom in his chest, and calmly tapped Block.
Just like that.That was it.
No dramatic confrontation.
No warning.
No explanation.
Elena had chosen peace.
Brian chose to protect it.
Two months passed.
And Rachael’s lie grew legs.
At first, the fake pregnancy had been a strategy—one she executed with frightening precision. She had learned the cadence of concern, the softness required in her voice, the exact way to cradle her stomach in public without overdoing it. She memorized appointment schedules she never attended. She learned how to cry without smudging mascara.
And then the universe did something cruel.
The pregnancy stopped being fake.
Rachael noticed the change slowly.
The nausea didn’t fade when it was supposed to.
The fatigue dug deeper.
Her body didn’t reset.
When her period didn’t come, she told herself it was stress.
When the cramps sharpened, she blamed anxiety.
But when she stood in her bathroom weeks later, staring at a test she hadn’t planned to take—and saw two clear lines—her hands began to shake.
This one was real.
Her stomach dropped.
The timing didn’t make sense.
Her mind raced backward—to late nights, shared wine on the balcony, laughter drifting through thin apartment walls. To Max.
The neighbor.
Tall. Quiet. Helpful. The one who fixed her sink without asking for anything—until one night, he had.
It had been careless.
It had been stupid.
It had been brief.
And now it had consequences.
Rachael did what she always did best.
She adapted.
She didn’t tell Damian the truth.
She leaned harder into the lie.
She cried more.
She clung tighter.
She spoke endlessly about family and tradition and how fragile pregnancy could be under stress.
And then—when she felt him pulling away just slightly, when she noticed the way his thoughts drifted elsewhere—she escalated.
It happened late one night.
Rain pressed against the windows. Damian was standing near the kitchen island, loosening his tie, exhaustion etched into his face.
Rachael sat on the couch, hands folded over her stomach.
“You don’t love me,” she said quietly.
Damian froze. “That’s not—”
“If you did,” she interrupted, voice trembling, “you wouldn’t hesitate.”
He turned to her. “Hesitate about what?”
She stood slowly, eyes glossy, breathing uneven. “About marrying me. About choosing me. About protecting this baby.”
“I’ve already proposed,” he said carefully.
“That’s not enough,” she snapped.
The room went still.
Her voice dropped, dangerous and sharp. “I need security. Now.”
Damian exhaled. “Rachael, this pressure—”
She reached into her bag.
His heart lurched.
Not a weapon.
A bottle.
Pills.
“I can’t do this,” she said, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t raise a child knowing I’m unwanted. If you leave me… if you delay this any longer… I swear I’ll end it. Me. And the baby.”
Silence crashed down like glass.
Damian’s face drained of color.
“Don’t say that,” he said sharply, stepping forward.
“I’m serious,” she whispered. “I won’t survive the humiliation. The stress. I won’t.”
He looked at her—not as a man in love, but as a man cornered.
Trapped.
Responsible.
The weight of a child—his child, he believed—pressed down on his chest like a vice.
“Put the pills down,” he said.
She hesitated.
Then slowly lowered them.
“I just need to know you won’t abandon us,” she said softly.
Three weeks later, they were married.
No grand wedding.
No joy.
Just signatures, witnesses, and a quiet ceremony that felt more like a transaction than a union.
Damian wore a suit that didn’t quite fit his mood.
Rachael smiled for the cameras.
She looked radiant.
No one noticed how Damian’s eyes never truly met hers.
No one noticed how his hand trembled when he slipped the ring onto her finger.
No one noticed how, later that night, alone in their bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall long after she fell asleep.
He told himself he had done the right thing.
He told himself this was responsibility.
He told himself this was adulthood.
But somewhere—deep, buried, and unresolved—another truth festered.
A woman had disappeared.
A message had gone unanswered.
And a lie had just grown teeth.
Because Rachael was pregnant.
Yes.
But not with Damian’s child.
And lies, once they began to live, always demanded blood in the end.