Tangled Again With My Ex Husband.

I leave the restroom and stop in front of the tall mirror hanging on the side wall of the guest room I now call mine. It's a small, cold space in the King mansion, but it's the only place I can stay.

Every morning, I stop and stare. It's a habit now. To look at my reflection, not to admire it, but to remember what I've become. A shadow. A quiet, broken version of who I used to be.

My hazel eyes look dull, empty. My cheekbones stand out too sharply, and the dark bags under my eyes show how little I sleep. My arms are thin, too thin, with small bruises all over from bumping into things while rushing around or from carrying trays that feel heavier with each passing day. I look like someone who's given up.

But I can't give up. Not now. I place a hand on my flat stomach and take a deep breath. No one can know I'm pregnant. If they do, they'll throw me out and I have nowhere to go.

Worse still... this child belongs to the man who's made my life a nightmare.

I just found out yesterday. Alone. Silent. The stick in my hand showed two lines. And I've been frozen ever since. Would they look at me differently if they knew I was carrying a child? Would Jordan care? Would his mother stop hating me?

I force a bitter smile. Of course not.

Shaking off the thought, I step into the closet and pull out a plain grey dress. It's loose enough to hide any changes. I smooth it down and brush my fingers through my hair before stepping into the hallway and walking toward the kitchen. My morning chores await me.

"Good morning, Mrs. King," I say as I enter the living room. She's seated, looking out the window with a scowl on her face.

She doesn't reply.

I'm used to it.

"Make me a cup of tea," she says without looking at me. "The usual."

I nod and turn toward the kitchen. No "please." No kindness. Just commands. That's all I ever get here.

I move quickly, boiling the water, adding the cream, and just the right amount of sugar. I place the cup on the small silver tray and carry it out to her. Carefully, I hold it out.

She takes a sip. Then spits it out.

"You slut," she snarls. "You really think you can ever be part of this family? You're nothing but a whore who trapped my son for money and a name. And now you can't even make tea? Pathetic."

The words hit harder than I thought they would. Even though I've heard them a thousand times, today they dig deeper. Maybe it's because of the baby. Or maybe I'm just too tired to pretend they don't hurt.

I lower my eyes, biting my tongue. She's hated me since the day that video leaked. The night I was drugged. The night her son was in the wrong bed. She's never once believed my side of the story.

The mug flies past my face, crashing into the wall behind me. Tea splashes on the floor. My hands shake, but I don't move. I've learned not to. Moving only makes things worse.

I bend and quietly clean the mess, my back burning from leaning down. I hear her mutter insults under her breath, but I ignore them.

This mansion, built with wealth, fame, and cold marble floors, is a prison. The King family owns dozens of companies, spreads their name across the country, and walks with pride. But here I am, a ghost in their home. Doing chores, making drinks, and cleaning up after everyone like a maid.

I should be Jordan's wife. At least on paper, I am. But no one treats me like one.

They never accepted me. Not once.

And I never wanted this. I never wanted him.

But life doesn't always ask what you want.

I finish cleaning and stand up, plastering the fakest smile I can manage.

"I'll make you another cup, ma'am," I say softly. "Sorry for the mistake."

Back in the kitchen, I wipe my eyes quickly before the tears fall. I don't want to cry. I'm tired of crying. I should be stronger than this.

But every day, a little more chips away from me.

I take a deep breath and finish the new cup. Less sugar. Slightly more cream. Just how she likes it. I hold the cup tightly, trying not to spill as I walk back to the living room.

Mrs. King takes it, eyes scanning me coldly.

She takes another sip.

Her face twists again. "What is this? Didn't I tell you how I like it?"

I want to scream. I did it right. I know I did. Is she doing this on purpose?

The front door opens.

Relief washes over me for a second. Maybe someone decent walked in. Maybe I'll get a break.

But that hope dies when I catch a familiar scent of oak and spices. His favorite cologne.

Jordan King.

I freeze. That scent still makes my skin crawl. The last time I was close enough to smell it, he'd just insulted me in front of his friends.

He walks in, tall, sharp in a black tailored suit, and next to him is a woman. Long copper-red hair. Tall, slim, and dressed in tight clothes. Their arms are locked. Her laugh rings out softly.

It's been three weeks since I saw him.

And now he's home with someone else.

Even though we're married, he never treated me like a wife. But showing up with another woman?

His eyes finally fell on me. Cold. Angry.

"You're still here?" he asks with a sneer. "Didn't think you'd last this long."

He turns to the woman beside him. "Make sure the guest room is cleaned up," he says to me. "I want her to be comfortable. She's special."

He smirks, licking his bottom lip as the woman giggles.

I try not to gag. My stomach churns.

It's too much.

The nausea rises too fast, and before I can stop it, I gag loudly. My hand flies to my mouth.

I feel their stares, sharp like knives.

Not now. Please not now.

I turn to leave, but Mrs. King grabs my arm. Her grip is hard, and she turns me around to face her.

Her eyes narrow.

"Are you...?"