To me, they weren't just flowers. They were proof that Silas cared—about me, about this baby. Even if he didn't love me, in that moment I let myself believe I'd carved out some small space in his heart. My chest tightened at the thought.
Two uniformed maids watched me from a distance. Silas had assigned them to make sure nothing happened to the baby. Theyusually wore the same blank expressions, but today—maybe it was the flowers—even they seemed less cold.
Maybe my future here wouldn't be all darkness. Maybe when the baby came, I could find my place...
"Good afternoon. You must be Anthea." A voice cut through my fantasy.
My spine locked. I turned slowly.
Vanessa, the woman I'd only seen in photos, stood in the gazebo, arms crossed. She wore a camel coat and a champagne dress, all lean grace and long neck, arrogance bred into bone. Next to her, in my loose maternity dress and thick coat, swollen from pregnancy, I looked like a whale.
"Good afternoon," I said politely.
Vanessa didn't look at me. Her eyes swept the garden, brow furrowing.
"Strange," she said softly, confused. "I don't remember white flowers being here before."
She turned to one of the maids. "Martha, what's this about?"
Martha's head dropped. "Miss Zaitseva, Mr. Thorne ordered them. Because Miss Carter likes dahlias, he had them transplanted overnight."
For a split second, I watched Vanessa's perfect mask crack. Jealousy and rage flashed across her face. But she hid it fast—so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it.
"Oh, I see." Vanessa's polite smile returned. She looked at me. "Silas is always so... thoughtful. Making sure you can deliver the baby safely. He's gone to a lot of trouble."
The public humiliation cut deep.
"Come into the gazebo. Standing in the wind isn't good for the baby." Vanessa's concern sounded rehearsed.
I had no right to refuse. I walked toward the gazebo, stopping a few feet from her.
Vanessa acted like she owned the place. She waved Martha over. After whispering something, she sat at the round table with its tea and pastries, legs crossed elegantly.
Martha hesitated, then ran toward the main house. I frowned. What was she doing?
"I don't need to introduce myself, do I? You know who I am." Vanessa smiled, certain.
I didn't answer. She didn't need me to.
"Why are you standing? Sit." She gestured to the chair across from her, making it sound like an invitation when it was clearly an order. "It's cold. I want hot tea. Pour me some."
I froze. A maid stood right there. This wasn't my job. Vanessa was making a point—showing me she was the mistress here. It stung, but I didn't want to fight over something this petty.
Pouring tea wasn't that humiliating.
I walked to the table and lifted the pot. Vanessa rested her chin on her hand, watching me with an amused smile.
"Seven-tenths full. Not too much, not too little," she said.
I ignored her stare and steadied my hands, pouring the steaming red tea into a ceramic cup.
"Done." I set down the pot and looked at her.
"Bring it to me."
I cupped the burning cup in both hands and held it out. Vanessa reached for it. Just as it nearly touched her fingers—
"Oh my God!" she gasped dramatically.
