Part 2How an Extra Stole the Tragic Lead's Heart

My heart leaped. I quickly pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the positive pregnancy test in my hand, and sent it to him.

I'm pregnant. You're not going to flake on me, are you?

The three dots appeared immediately. After a tense minute, a reply came through.

Where are you?

I pinned the clinic’s location and sent it.

In less than twenty minutes, a sleek black town car screeched to a halt outside the clinic doors. Ethan burst through the entrance, looking completely disheveled. He stared at the test result in my hand, then looked down at my perfectly flat stomach, utterly dazed.

I couldn't help but laugh. "It’s only been two weeks, Ethan. It’s barely a cluster of cells. What are you looking for?"

Before he could speak, I pressed the issue. "You promised you'd take responsibility if it happened. If you want to back out, I'll start looking at adoption agencies today."

"I never said I was backing out," he said, clearing his throat. He took my hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "Come with me. You're moving into my place."

He drove us to his suburban villa on the lakefront. It was a beautiful, secluded estate surrounded by towering pines and crisp, fresh air.

I made myself right at home, wandering through the spacious rooms. "This is perfect. I’ll take the master suite. Also, since this is my first pregnancy, we’re going to need a team of professional prenatal nannies and a specialized chef. Any objections?"

"No," Ethan murmured, his voice hollow as he pulled out his phone to instruct his assistant.

I settled into the villa. The staff Ethan hired was top-tier, preparing meticulously balanced meals and guiding me through every stage of prenatal care.

But Ethan remained a ghost in his own home, spending most of his time locked in his study.

One evening, around midnight, I woke up to a sudden flurry of comments hovering near my ceiling.

“Since the wedding, Madelyn has been posting nonstop couple goals on Instagram. Even her husband feeding her a spoonful of soup gets a five-hundred-word sappy essay.”

“Ethan is sitting in his dark study, scrolling through her feed and completely spiraling. I’m afraid the baby won't be enough to keep him here.”

I frowned, threw off my blanket, and marched down the hallway, knocking loudly on his study door.

After a long pause, the door swung open. Ethan stood there, his face pale and eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"I have terrible morning sickness," I announced, keeping my expression perfectly serious. "My stomach is burning, and I'm starving. Go make me something to eat."

Ethan blinked, looking entirely lost. "I... I don't know how to cook."

"Then look up a video tutorial," I said, crossing my arms. "The chef and nannies are asleep, and it’s dangerous for a pregnant woman to operate heavy appliances in the middle of the night. What if I slip and hurt the baby?"

"I'll do it," he muttered, his shoulders slumping.

He walked down to the kitchen, propped his phone against the spice rack, and clumsily attempted to boil a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

I took one spoonful of the broth and immediately set the bowl down. "This tastes like dishwater."

Ethan’s brow furrowed. "Is it really that bad?"

He took a small sip from his spoon and immediately spat it into the sink. He looked at me, embarrassed. "Should I order takeout?"

"We're in the suburbs, Ethan. By the time a delivery driver gets here, it’ll be time for my prenatal yoga class. Go make another bowl."

I kept him in that kitchen for two hours, rejecting six consecutive attempts. By the seventh bowl, the broth was actually rich and flavorful.

I ate two spoonfuls, patted my stomach, and stood up. "I'm full. I'm going back to sleep, and you should too."

Ethan was so physically drained from standing over the stove and chopping vegetables that his exhaustion completely overrode his grief. He nodded numbly and stumbled toward his bedroom, forgetting his phone entirely.

The comments in my room were practically vibrating with laughter.

“Oh my god, she worked him so hard he didn't have time to be sad!”

“When you're too busy cooking noodles, you don't have time to contemplate the meaning of life.”

“This is brilliant. Keep making him work!”