Gillian quietly averted her gaze, casually taking a seat on the sofa and pretending to scroll through the work group chats on her phone.
Over their five years of marriage, she had poured every ounce of her time outside of work into York. Now, sitting here with her phone in hand, she realized she didn't have a single friend to text.
Valery Thorne was constantly chasing news scoops, leaving them little time to chat.
Right now, Gillian felt like a piece of driftwood—rootless, isolated, and completely alone.
In a room full of joy, she was merely a ghost on the periphery.
“York holds that baby like he's been practicing. Are you secretly hoping to have one with Gillian soon?”
Beatrice's wrinkled face beamed with grandmotherly warmth. “If you two had a baby, they would be absolutely stunning.”
Gillian subtly tightened her grip on her phone, shooting a quick glance at York.
He acted as though he hadn't heard a word, his expression perfectly stoic.
He didn't want a child with her.
Observing the icy distance between Gillian and York, Evelyn realized their marriage was truly dead in the water. Terrified that Beatrice's relentless probing would push them into a public screaming match and trigger the old woman's heart condition, she quickly intervened.
“Alright, Mom. Let them figure out their own timeline for kids,” Evelyn smoothed over.
Dinner was an extravagant feast.
Gillian was seated right next to York.
The baby had been taken upstairs for a feeding. Staring at the decadent spread, Gillian felt her stomach violently churn. She barely touched her silverware the entire night.
By the time dinner concluded, a torrential rainstorm had rolled in, making the mountain roads too dangerous to navigate.
Gillian and York were forced to stay the night at the estate. Her stomach was completely empty, yet twisting with violent nausea.



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