Chapter 652 Pregnant
Michael's face was dark as he grabbed Emma's slender wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush her bones. Without a word, he yanked her out of the event hall, his movements rough yet careful.
"Home," he ordered the driver coldly, his voice like ice. His gaze remained fixed on Emma's pale face, not missing a single change in her expression.
Emma turned her head, looking out at the neon lights speeding past the window, the flashing points of light blurring in her eyes.
A wave of nausea churned in her chest. She fought to keep it down, digging her nails into her palm to distract herself from the pain. The air in the car felt thick, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning.
"I want to go to the Stuart Villa," she finally said, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible, like it came from far away.
Michael's brow furrowed, a flicker of displeasure in his eyes, but seeing her frail state, he relented. "Fine, I'll take you." His tone was still cold, but softer than usual.
The car turned and headed towards the Stuart Villa.
However, they hadn't gone far when Emma suddenly covered her mouth, her face turning as white as a sheet. She frantically pounded on the window, signaling to stop. Michael's expression changed, and he immediately told the driver to pull over.
Emma stumbled out of the car, collapsing by the roadside, retching violently as if she wanted to expel her very insides.
Her back heaved, cold sweat soaking the strands of hair at her temples. She looked as fragile as a glass doll that could shatter at any moment. The night breeze brought a slight chill, but it did nothing to ease her discomfort.
Michael stood behind her, his brow deeply furrowed. He reached out to help her but froze mid-air, finally saying in a cold voice, "To the hospital." His tone was commanding, yet there was a barely perceptible hint of concern.
The hospital corridor was cold and endless, the smell of disinfectant stinging Emma's nose. She lay on the examination bed, listening to the doctor's routine questions, her mind blank. The harsh lights made her squint.
"Congratulations, you're pregnant, about eight weeks along," the doctor said, adjusting his glasses, his tone calm as if stating the most ordinary fact.
The words hit Emma like a thunderbolt, making her tremble all over. She instinctively touched her flat stomach, her heart racing. This was George's child, a result of that fateful night. Her fingertips shook, her mind racing with countless thoughts, none of which she could grasp.
Michael stood nearby, his previously dark expression softening, a rare tenderness in his eyes. He walked over to Emma, placing his large hand over hers, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Our child." His tone carried an undeniable possessiveness.
Emma opened her mouth but said nothing.
She lowered her gaze, accepting the misunderstanding. She was too weak to argue, too afraid to correct him. To protect this child, she had to let Michael believe the lie.
Seeing her silence, Michael's lips curved slightly. He carefully helped her up, his movements surprisingly gentle. "Be careful, don't catch a cold." His voice was low and tender, a stark contrast to his usual cold demeanor.
Back in the car, Michael's attitude had completely changed. He personally fastened her seatbelt and draped his jacket over her legs.
His fingers brushed her skin, carrying a restrained warmth. The car was filled with the faint scent of leather and wood, mixed with his unique, cold fragrance.
"From now on, you can't go out alone," he said softly, his tone gentler than usual. "If you feel unwell, tell me immediately."
Emma nodded silently, her gaze fixed outside the window. She didn't dare look into Michael's eyes, afraid he would see through her. The city lights flickered in the night, the traffic flowing endlessly, but it couldn't dispel the darkness in her heart.
The car moved slowly through the night, Michael's gaze unconsciously drifting to Emma's stomach. It was still flat, but it held a new life. His expression grew complicated, his thoughts wandering to another woman, Celeste.
The woman he had once hurt so deeply.
When she was pregnant, was she as fragile as Emma? Did she ever hope for his care? A sharp pain pierced Michael's chest. He remembered the last time he saw Celeste, her tear-filled eyes full of despair. And he hadn't even hugged her.
"Are you okay?" Emma's voice pulled him back to reality.
Michael snapped back, realizing his hand was unconsciously stroking Emma's hair, just as Celeste had liked. He jerked his hand back as if burned, his face darkening instantly. "I'm fine." His voice was hard, as if the tenderness from moments ago had never existed.
The atmosphere in the car froze again. Emma sensed his change but didn't dare ask. She had a feeling that Michael was looking at someone else through her.
Michael was thinking about Celeste again.
That night, Michael did something unusual. Instead of working in his study, he lay down beside Emma early. He watched her peaceful sleeping face, his fingers hovering in the air, wanting to touch but pulling back. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a dappled light on her face.
"Celeste," he mouthed silently, his heart gripped by an invisible hand. He remembered Celeste's pregnancy, her begging on her knees, and how he had walked away without looking back. He remembered her final message, "Michael, I won't bother you anymore."
Now, he truly regretted it.
The regret washed over him like a tide, threatening to drown him. Michael got out of bed, walked to the balcony, and lit a cigarette. In the night, his silhouette looked especially lonely. He exhaled a smoke ring, as if trying to expel the knot in his chest.
"Why?" he asked himself softly.
The cigarette's glow flickered in the darkness, mirroring his chaotic thoughts.
In the days that followed, Michael's care for Emma became almost meticulous. He hired the best nutritionist, personally supervised her diet, canceled all social engagements to walk with her, and even learned to make soup, though the taste was questionable. Yet he insisted on preparing it for her every day.
But whenever his gaze fell on Emma's belly, Celeste's shadow would unavoidably appear. The Celeste he had pushed away now became the deepest thorn in his heart. Even in the dead of night, Michael would wake from nightmares, his forehead covered in cold sweat. In his dreams, Celeste, covered in blood, would ask him, "Why didn't you want our child?"
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