You Killed Me, Then You Loved Me

My name is Bella Trump. The marriage contract with Joseph Jordan was made three years ago. It's clearly written in black and white: a three-year term, and if I bear no children, the marriage contract will automatically be terminated. The Jordan Family needs a nominal young mistress to uphold appearances, while my family urgently needs the Jordan Family's financial support. This deal was about mutual convenience, and love was the one thing excluded. I'm not ignorant of that. But hearts are made of flesh; day after day, facing that handsome, cold face, I inevitably fell for him. Besides, a child was the only bargaining chip I had to keep him by my side. From our wedding night on, I clung to him every night. I'd light calming incense in the bedroom beforehand, lean in to kiss the hollow of his throat, and awkwardly cater to every one of his preferences. Joseph Jordan was cold most of the time. He would either brush me off by saying he was busy with work or half-heartedly sit with me for a while before heading to the study. Occasionally, he indulged my need for closeness, but there was always a sense of distance. I told myself to take it slow, believing that eventually, there would be a chance. Day after day went by, but my lower abdomen remained completely still. I began to feel anxious and even secretly went to the hospital for a checkup. The doctor said my body was perfectly fine and that getting pregnant was only a matter of time, as long as I relaxed. Buoyed by the doctor's reassurance, I clung to Joseph more often. But his attitude grew colder and colder. That evening, I carried the stew to the study to find him. The study door was slightly ajar, and inside I heard his deep voice—it was a phone call. I instinctively stopped in my tracks and didn't push the door open. On the other end was a gentle female voice I recognized—Jasmine Frankfort, the first love he held dear in his heart. "Joseph, are you really going to let this go on between you and her?" Jasmine's voice held a trace of grievance. Joseph Jordan's tone softened instantly, completely different from the way he spoke to me. "Jasmine, don't worry, I never touched her." My heart sank sharply, and I almost dropped the bowl of soup in my hands. "What if she's pregnant?" Jasmine pressed, demanding an answer. Joseph sneered, his voice dripping with contempt and cruelty. "She can't get pregnant." "That car crash she had last time, I arranged it." "I made sure someone damaged her uterus so she'd never be able to have children again." Every word felt like an ice-cold blade, piercing straight through my heart. So it wasn't that I wasn't trying hard enough. It turns out it wasn't a matter of timing. From the very start, he cut off every hope I had. That car accident that kept me bedridden for half a month—I always thought it was just an accident, but I never imagined it was a scheme meticulously planned by him. I choked back the lump in my throat, gently set down the soup bowl, and slipped away silently. Back in the bedroom, I closed the door and finally collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Every ounce of passion, every hope, turned to ashes at that very moment. I decided to let go. Since his heart belongs to someone else, and he's so cruel to me, why should I keep humiliating myself? From that day on, I stopped clinging to Joseph Jordan. I no longer waited for him to come home for dinner, no longer crawled into his bed, and even deliberately avoided being alone with him. I locked myself in my room—either reading or staring off into space—so quiet I was practically invisible. Joseph seemed to sense the change in me. At dinner, he would instinctively glance at the empty seat, his eyes showing a faint, barely noticeable surprise. At night, when he came back to the bedroom and saw me curled up on the other side of the bed, his brows would knit ever so slightly. One time, he came over on his own and tried to hug me, but I instinctively turned away. I clearly saw a flicker of surprise cross his face, quickly covered up by coldness. But I could feel his discomfort. He was used to my active affection, used to my endless clinging; my sudden withdrawal left him at a loss.