Page 62 of The Cruel Heir

“Could’ve,” he agreed. “Not going to.”

I hated him. I really did.

I slid into the seat, folding my arms as he got in beside me.

The ride home was silent, thick with something neither of us wanted to name.

By the time we arrived at the estate, I was exhausted. I barely had time to kick off my shoes before Sterling grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the dining room.

I scowled. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tough.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the scent of food made my stomach betray me. A large dinner was spread across the table; herb-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and grilled vegetables.

Sterling pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

I hesitated. I should fight him. I should resist.

But I didn’t.

Not this time.

I sat, picking at my plate as he watched me. Always watching.

When I finally spoke, my voice was quiet. “You don’t have to do all this.”

His brow lifted. “Do what?”

“Pretend to care.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “You think this is pretend?”

I pushed my food around, not answering.

His chair scraped against the floor as he stood, moving around the table until he was beside me. He knelt down, his fingers skimming my knee. “Zara.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

His hand slid up, resting just beneath my belly. Over our child.

“This is real,” he murmured. “You. Me. Our family.”

My breath shuddered. He was winning.

I hated that I let him.

His lips brushed my forehead before I could move away. A soft kiss, almost gentle, like he was trying to rewrite history, reshape our reality into something softer.

“Come upstairs,” he commanded.

I hesitated. Not because I was afraid, but because I was starting to believe him. He led me, holding onto my hand tightly, and I was entranced. There was something different about him.

Softer, maybe.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

We went into our shared bedroom, because Sterling now refused to use any other.