Chapter 17 Five Months Later

Chapter 17 Five Months Later


Chapter — Five Months Later — Susan’s POV

The house felt too big. Too quiet. Too empty. Every creak of the floor, every distant hum of the city outside, reminded me that I was utterly alone. My body was heavy, my stomach aching from carrying a life that was mine and his, though it felt more his than mine at times. Each movement I made caused a dull, constant pain, a reminder that I was growing, nurturing, protecting something fragile while I had no one to protect me.

I had gotten used to it. Used to the loneliness. Used to the coldness. Used to the silence.

But no matter how much I told myself I was “used to it,” the sting never truly went away.

Lucien.

I tried to remember the last time he had checked up on me—not just superficially, not a “how are you feeling?” that felt empty, but a real look, a real concern, the kind of thing that would make me believe I mattered to him beyond the child I carried.

It hadn’t happened. Not in months.

I pressed my hands to my stomach, feeling the small movements of the baby, and whispered, almost to myself, “I’m doing this for both of us… I’ll keep us safe.”

I picked up my phone. His name flashed on the screen. My chest tightened as I hesitated. I wanted to hear his voice, just once, even a few seconds of acknowledgment. My fingers shook as I pressed the call button.

He answered.

“Hello?” his voice was calm, distant, almost clipped.

“Lucien… I just wanted—”

Click. The call ended before I could finish.

I tried again. Same thing. Click.

I felt tears well up, hot and bitter. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe. I was used to this, I reminded myself. I had grown accustomed to being ignored, dismissed, and overlooked. But today, today it hurt more than usual.

I looked around my small apartment, the place I had made mine after finally deciding I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. Everything was neat, everything organized, but the emptiness of it all pressed against me. No laughter, no soft footsteps, no one checking if I was okay… only silence.

I scrolled through my social media, trying not to, knowing it would hurt. My stomach tightened at the sight. There they were. Lucien and Tabitha. Smiling. Close. Warm. Touching in ways that felt deliberate, broadcasted, impossible to ignore.

A pang of something fierce shot through me—anger, jealousy, despair—all at once.

I pressed my hands to my face, letting the tears fall quietly. “I’m so tired of being alone,” I whispered. “I’m so tired of being… invisible.”

The baby kicked, hard, and I instinctively put my hand on my stomach. “Don’t worry, little one,” I murmured. “We’ll get out. We’ll be free. Just you and me.”

My mind raced. I thought about the day I would finally leave that toxic world behind, the day I would hold my baby in my arms and know that no one could take us, no one could touch us, no one could hurt us anymore.

I walked to the small kitchen, my body aching with each step. I leaned against the counter, breathing slowly, trying to settle the nausea that had become my constant companion. Every ache, every twinge reminded me that I was responsible for someone else now. And yet… I felt more powerless than ever.

I sat down, my back against the wall, and let the tears fall freely. I was used to being strong. Used to hiding my emotions. But right now, the baby and I were all I had, and I needed to let it out. I cried for the loneliness. I cried for the exhaustion. I cried for the love I would never get from the man who had brought this child into the world.

Hours passed. I napped in fits and starts, my body screaming for rest, my mind unwilling to give it. I ate sparingly, trying not to disturb the little one growing inside me. Every quiet sound, every car outside, every distant step made my heart jump, hoping—foolishly—that it was him checking in, coming to see if I was okay.

But no. It was never him.

And slowly, a different kind of strength grew inside me. Not the fear-driven panic of before, not the helplessness I felt when I first realized I was carrying his child alone. But a quiet, resolute fire.

I will leave.

I will survive.

I will protect my baby.

I imagined the day I would finally step out into the sunlight, suitcase in hand, baby bundled against my chest, free from the cold control of a man who never truly saw me. I imagined the soft life I would build, where laughter wasn’t a forbidden sound, where love wasn’t a weapon, where I was more than an afterthought.

The pain in my body didn’t go away, the loneliness didn’t vanish, but something shifted inside me. Each ache, each tear, each sleepless night became a reminder—not of what I had lost, but of what I would fight for.

I pressed my hand against my stomach again, feeling the tiny kicks, the fluttering life that depended on me. “We’ll be okay,” I whispered. “I promise, we’ll be okay.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, I allowed myself a small, tentative smile. Not for him. Not for anyone. For me. And for the baby I would protect with every ounce of my being.

The wait, the neglect, the isolation… they had hardened me. They had sharpened me. And when the time came, when I finally made my move, no one—not even Lucien—would be able to stop me.

I was used to being alone. But I was not powerless.

And I never would be.