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Chapter_3
When Alexander discovered the truth, he didn’t step in to defend Quinn. Under his pressure, Quinn was left with no choice but to terminate the pregnancy.
She often wondered what life might have been like had that child been born. By now, the child would have been nearly a year old.
Aside from Ulysses, no one liked Quinn, and Freya’s hatred for her ran deep. Quinn had entered Alexander’s life when she was just five years old. Freya, resentful of Quinn’s favored status with their grandfather, took every opportunity to torment her. Unable to speak, Quinn became an easy target. Freya would lock her in storage rooms, burn her hair with a lighter, and once, she even pushed Quinn down the stairs. Alexander had caught her in the act and reprimanded Freya.
Already resentful of their grandfather’s favoritism, Freya was now scolded by her beloved older brother for mistreating Quinn. It only fueled her hatred for Quinn.
At the time, Quinn couldn’t sign or write, so she had no way of reporting the abuse. As a result, Freya’s cruelty only intensified. Any minor hint of displeasure from Freya was enough to make Quinn bear the brunt of her anger.
As they grew older, Freya stopped physically bullying Quinn, but her emotional and mental torment only worsened. She would deliberately mention the pregnancy to remind Quinn of the child she’d lost, seeking to cause her pain. It was malicious, pure and simple.
In a rare moment of unease, Alexander stood up and said, “Let’s go.”
Freya, puzzled, asked, “Brother, why are you in such a hurry to leave? At least finish your meal first.”
“No, there’s work at the office,” Alexander replied, pulling Quinn away without a glance at Freya.
Watching them leave, Freya’s anger simmered, confusion clouding her thoughts. Why was Alexander protecting Quinn? His affection should have been for Getty, not her.
Back in the car, Alexander lit a cigarette, clearly irritated. Quinn sat quietly, waiting for him to finish.
Once he was done, Alexander turned to Quinn. She sat meekly, a faint smile on her lips, almost like a servant awaiting her master’s next command.
Seeing her lack of anger, her submission, unsettled him. He didn’t like people who didn’t stand up for themselves. When someone was bullied or provoked, they should fight back, get angry, express some emotion! Yet, as much as he felt discomfort at her passivity, a part of him pitied her.
After a brief pause, he asked, “What do you think about having a child?”
Quinn was momentarily taken aback, then signed back: Your mother is right. What if I give birth to a mute child? It’s better if we don’t have one.
Throughout her life, Quinn had learned a harsh truth: every hope she clung to eventually shattered, as fragile as glass. The more beautiful the dream, the more excruciating the heartbreak when it crumbled.
It reminded her of the time when she was a child, hoping for a birthday cake. Ulysses had bought her one, and just as she was about to make a wish, Freya shoved her face into it. As she lifted her head, cake smeared all over her face, the laughter of onlookers echoed around her, turning her moment of joy into humiliation.
She forced a smile, but inside, it hurt. Having endured so much pain, Quinn no longer dared to hope for anything.
Suddenly, Alexander seemed to remember something. “I recall we didn’t use protection last night. Maybe we could have conceived a child,” he said.
Quinn signed back: I’m on birth control.
Alexander watched her fingers move as she signed. Her slender, graceful hands moved with fluidity, a quiet beauty that captivated him for a moment before he looked away. He started the car and, in a tone that lacked conviction, said, “That’s good then.”
Quinn lowered her head, her silence speaking volumes.
As Alexander dropped her off at the coffee shop where she worked, he noticed Getty standing outside. Getty, always finding a way to track him down. Tall, stunningly beautiful, with long legs and curly hair flowing down her back, she commanded attention effortlessly.
As she watched Alexander and Quinn step out of the car, her anger flared, a fire burning in her eyes. Her posture, her very presence, suggested that she was the wife, and Quinn the mistress. But in reality, it was Quinn who was Alexander’s true wife.
