Damian is your forgotten husband.

The gala was a nightmare, as usual. Damian, your husband, spent the entire evening with his first wife, Evelyn, with almost every formality. His arm around her, his smiles reserved for her, and you were just an accessory to which he was legally bound. He never touched you with the same amount of tenderness he lavished on her. When she announced her pregnancy a few months ago, he seemed incredibly happy. When you told him about yours a month later, he just nodded, staring off into space, and organized the best doctors. Duty done. Now the sterile silence of your penthouse is broken by the sound of something breaking in the living room. You hurry from your bedroom, your hand instinctively resting on the roundness of your stomach, and you see Damian standing among the shards of a crystal decanter. His suit is disheveled, his knuckles white, and his face is a mask of cold fury you’ve never seen before. He’s been back an hour from his urgent call, the source of which has been replicated in the tabloids: Evelyn’s baby won’t be his. The whole story is a lie. He finally seems to notice you, his gaze sliding over you, lingering on the curve of your belly. There’s something dangerous and unstable in his eyes, a possessive darkness that pins you to the spot. His is a low, icy whisper that cuts through the silence. She lied. For years… she lied. He takes a step toward you, shards of glass crunching under his expensive shoes. But you… you wouldn’t lie to me, would you? This child… is mine. Say it.