Sera looks concerned. "Please, tell me more about the twins. Do you know the genders yet?"
The conversation moves forward. I participate when necessary. Smile when appropriate. Play the role of supportive sister-in-law.
But inside, I'm calculating.
Calculating how much longer I can keep this up. How much longer before I actually do break. How much longer before Saint realizes I'm not worth the effort.
Because that's the truth I'm facing tonight:
I'm with a man who only values me for what I can give him.
And tonight proved it. The moment I couldn't give him the one thing he needs—couldn't produce the heir, couldn't be the perfect fertile wife—I fell apart. And he had to comfort me. Had to manage my breakdown like I'm another problem to solve.
That's all I am. A problem. A defective product.
He'll keep me as long as I'm useful. As long as the intel keeps coming and the sex is good and I don't become too much of a liability.
But the moment I stop providing? The moment I'm more trouble than I'm worth?
I'm disposable.
Everyone in my life has taught me that lesson. My mother. Adrian. Even Sera, sitting there glowing with her perfect pregnancy, proving what I can't do.
So, I smile through dessert. Make polite conversation. Let Saint's hand rest possessively on my thigh under the table.
And I bury the terror, the knowledge that I'm always one failure away from being thrown away, deep down where no one can see it.
CHAPTER 11
Saint
I watch her sleep.
Not in a romantic way. More like watching an investment.
Making sure it's still functional. Still valuable.
Gemma is thin, incredibly so. She's been thin since I met her, but now, it's worse. I wonder why. Is it the stress? It hasn't been an easy year for Gemma. First our engagement, and then, her mother's death, and finally, our marriage. Was it weighing on her?
I remember calling her fat at our first dinner together. Fat ass, I'd said. Cruel for the sake of cruelty. Standard operating procedure for me. And not something I've ever dwelled on.
I assumed she knew I was full of shit. Gemma is the type of woman that has heard she's gorgeous her entire life. At least, I assumed as much.
Now, I wonder if I miscalculated.
My words clearly stung. She has mentioned it several times, and looking at her now, curled on her side, face peaceful in sleep, I feel something like...regret.
Not guilt. We'd been trading barbs, and mine were just more effective, but I can't help but feel like I did maximum damage without understanding the context.
I know I need to solve this problem. Gemma needs to be healthy, not because I care that much, but because she needs to conceive. Sure, I told her that I thought it would happen eventually, but I'm not sure if I believe that.
Not fully.
Because Gemma was correct—we'd been fucking like rabbits. It's hard to not believe that something might not be wrong with one of us.
But I knew I couldn't say that to her.
Gemma's like a mouse. Shine the light too close, apply too much pressure, and she scurries away. Goes internal. Stops being the sharp, vicious partner I've come to rely on.
