Part 3How an Extra Stole the Tragic Lead's Heart

The next morning, before the chef could even set the table, I marched over and knocked on Ethan's door again.

He opened it, sporting a pair of massive dark circles under his eyes.

"I can't stomach the chef's breakfast today," I declared. "I have a sudden craving for pumpkin oatmeal. Go look up a recipe and make it from scratch."

He stood there, his brain clearly struggling to boot up.

I stepped lightly on his slippered foot. "Hurry up. The baby is hungry."

Ethan cleared his throat, sighed, and headed straight for the kitchen. Making oatmeal required constant stirring, forcing him to stand by the hot stove for forty minutes without a single moment to check his social media.

Once the oatmeal was done, I ate a few spoonfuls to satisfy my hunger, then laid out my demands for the rest of the day.

"For lunch, I want steamed sea bass, roasted herb chicken, and sweet and sour ribs. You have to make them yourself. Ask the chef to supervise you."

Without waiting for his response, I turned and headed back to my room for a morning nap.

When I woke up at noon, the dining table was set with the exact dishes I had requested. Under the chef's strict guidance, the food was actually quite good.

From that day on, the kitchen became Ethan's domain.

I refused to eat anything he didn't personally cook. If he tried to sneak a dish prepared by the chef, I would take one bite, pretend to gag, and claim that the baby possessed an incredibly sensitive palate that only recognized its father's cooking.

Faced with the threat of my malnutrition, Ethan didn't dare slack off. Between managing the Hawthorne Group’s daily operations, learning gourmet recipes, and looking after my health, his schedule was packed to the second.

He had absolutely no time to search for Madelyn's updates.

One evening, after finishing dinner, I carefully packed a portion of the leftover chicken and placed it in the warming drawer.

Ethan watched me, his brow raised. "Still hungry?"

"No, this is for you," I said, looking at him. "You’ve been cooking all day and barely touched your own plate. You’ve had a terrible stomach since your startup days, and skipping meals is only going to trigger your ulcers. If you collapse from a stomach bleed, who's going to feed me and the baby?"

Ethan froze, staring at the warm container. "I don't need—"

"Eat it," I commanded, leaving no room for argument. "You look like a ghost walking around this house. I need my personal chef in prime condition."

He didn't argue further.

The next morning, when I checked the kitchen, the container was clean and sitting in the dishwasher.

As the months passed, my belly began to swell. Ethan seemed fascinated by the physical reality of the pregnancy, his gaze constantly lingering on my stomach.

By the fifth month, the baby began to kick.

Seeing him stare at my belly with quiet awe during dinner, I smiled. "Want to feel?"

"Can I?" he whispered, his voice hesitant.

I took his hand and pressed his palm against the soft curve of my stomach. A second later, a distinct, gentle thump nudged his palm.

Ethan’s eyes widened, a genuine, brilliant smile breaking across his face. He leaned down, pressing his ear against my belly, holding his breath as he listened to the faint, rapid heartbeat of our child.

"Her heart... it's beating so fast," he whispered, looking up at me with bright, wonder-filled eyes.

"Of course it is," I laughed, running my fingers through his hair.

His attitude had shifted completely. He was no longer just fulfilling a duty; he was falling in love with the life we were creating.