"IVF failed, natural pregnancy isn't happening, nothing works—what kind of past does your wife even have to be cursed with infertility like this?"
"Mom!" Zayden snapped at his mother, who had been ranting nonstop.
"I told you to marry someone suitable, someone I chose, not just anyone!" Helena's voice rose an octave. "She had everything when she married you, but her background is shady! Who knows where she got it all—maybe selling herself?"
"Mom, enough!" Bram, Zayden's father, finally intervened.
"Do you even realize how cruel you're being?" Zayden stood, gripping Marisha's stiff hand.
Helena shot up, jabbing a finger at them. "Your father and I are growing old—we could die any day! When will we have a grandchild? When will this family have an heir?"
"And you, Dad, don't act all righteous! You lie awake every night thinking about grandchildren—admit it! Stop pretending!"
Zayden pulled Marisha closer, her body rigid against him.
"Mom, we're trying, okay? It's not like we're doing nothing!"
"If I had another child, I'd disinherit you right now! Stubborn, ungrateful boy! Enjoy your life with this barren woman then! Mark my words—you'll never have children!"
Zayden inhaled sharply. "If you're going to be like this, don't expect us to visit again. Don't invite us to dinner!"
He led Marisha out, leaving behind a dining room that had long lost its warmth.
Marisha glanced back once. Her gaze was ice-cold.
"Why don't those two old relics just drop dead already?" she seethed inwardly.
"Don't listen to her, Marisha. Ignore it," Zayden murmured, holding her tightly.
And as always, Marisha returned the embrace—playing the role of the wounded, fragile wife.
But beneath that hug, she harbored nothing but hatred for her in-laws. She was counting down the days until their deaths, so she and Zayden could live free from the pressure of heirs.
"I'll take you home. Rest. I have work to finish," Zayden said, kissing her forehead gently.
"I'm sorry… I'm not the perfect wife. Your mom's right—maybe I am cursed…" Marisha's voice trembled, wrenching Zayden's heart.
"Don't say that!" He wiped her tears, guilt gnawing at him—especially after what happened with Irish last week.
He had cheated. And worse, he couldn't erase Irish from his mind.
Her smile, her body, their searing kiss—it all haunted him. Drove him mad. Made him crave a repeat.
*****
Zayden stared at Irish's latest post—a photo of her in a satin spaghetti-strap nightgown from her boutique's new collection.
The pose was teasing yet elegant. Her gaze pierced through the screen, as if meant solely for him—a deliberate taunt, a reminder of their heated encounter.
She was perfect. And Zayden didn't understand his own obsession. It wasn't just physical though Irish was devastatingly beautiful.
What unsettled him was the irrational longing. He missed a woman he barely knew. Was this still about wanting a child? Or… had he truly fallen under her spell?
"Sir, today's meeting—"
"Reschedule. I'm unwell," Zayden cut off his secretary, his voice rough, eyes still glued to his phone.
His mind was consumed by Irish. And it made him forget everything else.
His pulse spiked when he saw her new Story—a shattered window with the caption,"So scary… someone tried to break into my home."
Zayden swallowed hard. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, torn between concern and self-restraint.
Another notification. A new Story—this time, a photo of her bleeding hand and a chilling message, "Be careful, everyone… the world's gone mad."
Zayden raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. He couldn't just watch from afar.
Finally, he gave in. The message sent, "What happened? Are you okay?"
His heart hammered as he waited.
The reply came fast, "Uncle Zayden… can I trouble you just this once?"
Zayden's breath hitched. Without thinking, he grabbed his keys and stormed out of his office.
He knew this was wrong. So wrong.
But this time, he swore it was just to help. Irish was shaken. Her home violated, her hand injured.
"Just helping," he repeated to himself.
Yet he knew Irish wasn't some damsel in distress. She was the storm upending his life.
Meanwhile, Irish pressed glass shards into her palm. Her breath came in sharp gasps as blood welled from the self-inflicted wound.
Tears fell—whether from pain or fury, she didn't know.
This was insane. But necessary.
A staged break-in. A paid actor to fake the terror. All to lure Zayden deeper into her web.
"Sorry, hand…" she whispered coldly, staring at the wound. "But this is for revenge. To make Marisha feel the same pain my mother did."
She clutched her bleeding palm, her breathing ragged—but a smile curled her lips when Zayden's text appeared:
"I'm on my way."
Without hesitation, Irish stood. The pain was real, but nothing compared to the gaping wound in her heart.
In one swift motion, she tore her top. Now only a black bra covered her chest, stark against her pale skin.
She studied her reflection—wild eyes, full of vengeance and resolve.
"You will fall into my arms, Zayden," she murmured. "And when you do… everything will change."
She took a deep breath, ready to play the game she had orchestrated.