Chapter 89 : First Doubts

Chapter 89 : First Doubts
Adrian’s POV
The manila envelope sat on my desk like a silent accusation. Its edges were frayed, its corners bent from travel, the faint scent of rain and dust clinging to it. I hadn’t touched it for nearly five minutes. I just sat there, staring, fingers curled against the desk, fighting the quiet dread crawling up my spine.
My private investigator had dropped it off barely an hour ago. No words. No explanations. Just a stiff nod and a look that said, You’ll want to see this yourself. Then he was gone—disappearing into the heavy shadows of the study before I could even thank or question him.
Now, the envelope waited—silent, heavy, and final.
I slid a finger under the seal. The paper tore with a sharp hiss that echoed far too loudly in the quiet room.
Photographs spilled out first, sliding across the polished wood like a deck of cards revealing a cruel hand.
Celeste.
In her bedroom mirror, peeling off a rounded silicone belly. The reflection of her hands, shaking slightly as she adjusted the straps beneath her blouse.
Another photo—Celeste standing beside a car, glancing around before handing an envelope to a man in a white coat outside a dingy-looking clinic. His face was partially hidden beneath a cap, but the insignia on the door behind him told me enough.
A doctor.
A forged one.
Then came the documents—falsified medical records, payment receipts, a string of cash withdrawals. The trail was undeniable. Each sheet screamed deceit, every number and signature another nail in the coffin of her lies.
My chest tightened. The weight of realization pressed against my ribs like a vice.
For months, I’d tolerated her tears, her manipulations, her whispered threats that her “pregnancy” made her untouchable. She’d built her power on that illusion, shaping it into a weapon, forcing my hand at every turn. And I—fool that I was—had allowed it, believing that loyalty meant restraint.
It was all smoke. All rot.
I pushed back from the desk, pacing across the room, my thoughts a storm of betrayal and disgust. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its glow painting the photographs in shifting orange light. The images seemed to sneer at me.
I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to breathe, but all I saw was Samora’s face. Her quiet strength. Her unwavering love for Silven. How close I had come to destroying her because of Celeste’s manipulations—because I believed in the wrong woman.
A sharp knock cut through the silence.
“Come in,” I said, my voice flat, controlled.
The door opened. Celeste stepped inside, wearing pale silk and that same performative smile she always wore when she wanted something. She paused when she saw me standing by the fire.
The photos lay scattered across the table between us like spilled secrets.
Her smile faltered.
“Adrian,” she breathed. Her voice trembled just enough to sound sincere.
“Don’t.” The word snapped through the air. “Don’t speak unless it’s the truth.”
Color drained from her face. “I don’t understand—”
“Lies.” My voice came out low, deadly calm. “You’ve lived in this house long enough to know how I deal with liars.”
She froze, glancing toward the table. Her eyes landed on the photographs—on the evidence—and in that instant, I saw it. The recognition. The fear. The way her throat tightened as she swallowed hard.
“I can explain,” she whispered.
I stepped forward, my voice cold enough to burn. “Explain what? How you strapped latex to your stomach and dared to parade it as my child? How you bribed doctors, forged records, and turned my name into a circus?”
Her lips parted, trembling. “Adrian, please, I—”
“Don’t.” I slammed my hand against the desk, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch. “You lied to me. To the staff. To everyone in this estate. You made me believe—” I stopped, my voice breaking against the fury in my chest. “You made me believe you carried my blood.”
Her tears fell then—soft, glistening things that would’ve fooled a lesser man. “I had to,” she said, voice cracking. “Don’t you see? I was losing you. To her. To Samora.”
The sound of that name on her tongue made something inside me twist.
Samora.
The woman Celeste had spent months poisoning with suspicion and venom. The woman who, despite everything, had stayed.
“You disgust me,” I said finally. “You will leave this house tomorrow. Pack your things, and go quietly. If you try to play the victim, I will make sure every pack in this region knows what kind of liar you are.”
Celeste’s tears stopped. For a heartbeat, her face went blank—then something dangerous flickered behind her eyes. Desperation. Calculation.
She took a step closer, her tone changing, sharp and cutting. “You think Samora is innocent?”
The words sliced through my anger like a blade. I stilled.
“What did you say?”
A faint, bitter smile curved her lips. “Oh, Adrian. You’re so blinded by her sweetness, by that perfect little child, that you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”
I said nothing, but the tension in the room thickened.
“She’s been working against you,” Celeste continued, her voice gaining strength. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but I’ve seen the proof.”
My hands clenched into fists. “You’re lying.”
She shook her head, tears glistening again. “I wish I was.”
From her handbag, she pulled a small folder. The sound of the clasp snapping open echoed through the room like a warning bell. She placed the papers on the desk, sliding them toward me.
“Go on,” she whispered. “See for yourself.”
For a long moment, I didn’t move. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Then, slowly, I reached for the papers.
Receipts. Notes. Letters marked with Samora’s name.
At first glance, they seemed ordinary, but as I scanned the details, the words began to blur into something sharp and terrifying.
Transfers. Hidden accounts. Names I recognized—men I had blacklisted years ago. Enemies.
Each page felt like a strike.
Celeste’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s been meeting them for months. Quietly. Carefully. Right under your nose.”
“No…” I muttered, shaking my head. “Samora wouldn’t—she wouldn’t betray me.”
Celeste tilted her head, pity twisting her features. “Wouldn’t she? She’s desperate to protect her child. Don’t you see? You’re the threat, Adrian. You’re the monster in her story.”
The words dug deep, festering like old wounds.
I wanted to deny it outright, to throw the papers into the fire and burn her lies to ash. But my eyes kept returning to the evidence—the handwriting, the dates, the seal on one of the letters. It all looked real. Too real.
The room began to spin. My pulse thudded painfully against my temples.
Celeste reached across the desk, her voice soft, almost gentle. “You don’t have to believe me now. But look at the papers again when the anger fades. You’ll see the truth eventually. You always do.”
I stared at her. Her confidence chilled me more than her lies ever could.
When she left the room, she did it slowly—deliberately—her perfume lingering behind her like the echo of sin.
Silence settled over the study again, heavy and suffocating.
I looked down at the photographs of her deception scattered across the desk, and beside them, the documents accusing Samora.
Light and shadow. Lies and lies.
For the first time since Silven’s birth, I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself in years.
Not fury.
Not grief.
But doubt.
Cold. Crawling. Poisonous doubt.
It seeped into my chest, quiet and patient, whispering questions I didn’t want to ask.
What if Samora was hiding something? What if everything I’d believed—the tenderness, the trust—was another carefully crafted illusion?
I pressed my palms against the desk and bowed my head, letting out a long, uneven breath.
The fire crackled softly beside me, throwing shifting shadows across the wall. The papers rustled in the draft, whispering secrets that refused to die.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I didn’t know who to believe.