"Erika, Erika, Erika… don't you have anything else to talk about?"
Patritica Milne rolled her green eyes, standing up from the table with an air of exasperation. The flickering chandelier above cast shifting patterns on her face, highlighting the sharp edges of her irritation.
"Patritica, this is no way for a high-class lady to behave," Mrs. Milne scolded, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a silk napkin before setting her spoon aside. She moved toward her eldest daughter with an air of authority, her gown rustling as she walked. "It's dinner time. Show some respect. Thank God your father isn't here to witness such mannerlessness."
"Mom, you don't have to explain anything to her," Rosalina chimed in, folding her arms. "She only cares about her own interests."
Mrs. Milne spun on her heels, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. The weight of disappointment settled on her shoulders, bleeding into her voice. "Not another word. Especially from you." Her voice trembled with anger. "Do you have any idea how much insult and contempt I've endured because of your reckless decisions?"
Rosalina flinched. She had never heard her mother raise her voice like this before.
"You can't change the past, Mother." Patritica sighed, dropping back into her chair, her fingers drumming against the polished wooden surface. "She married that fifty-something-year-old man, and now he's disappeared off the face of the earth."
The dining room was grand, with its opulent decor and an open view of the garden, where lanterns cast a warm glow over the manicured hedges. The setting was perfect, yet the atmosphere inside was suffocating.
Rosalina's grip tightened over her stomach as she lifted her chin. "I told you, Kan didn't run away. He wouldn't leave me like this. Something happened to him—I'm sure of it." Her voice held an unwavering certainty, as if sheer belief could bring him back.
Mrs. Milne scoffed. "And are you truly sure that the daughter of a common street woman actually married Mr. Rafael?"
Patritica groaned, stretching her arms. "Honestly, Mother, why are you so obsessed with Erika's love life? It's none of our business. Who she marries, what she does—it's her problem. Not ours."
"You might not care, but I do," Mrs. Milne snapped. "That girl's existence affects our family's reputation."
For weeks, the house had been filled with the same tedious discussions, looping back to Erika, her supposed marriage, and the implications it held for the Milnes. Patritica, however, had long grown tired of their mother's paranoia.
She was a simple woman with simple ambitions. As a fashion designer, she spent her days immersed in fabric swatches and sketches, not in society's suffocating expectations. Her pale complexion and modest lifestyle reflected her disinterest in the aristocratic chaos that consumed the rest of her family.
Rosalina remained silent, absorbing her mother's relentless criticism. She had walked this path willingly, and she knew what came with it. With a slow breath, her hand brushed against her stomach.
Patritica's sharp gaze flickered toward her. "Don't tell me you're pregnant."
Rosalina's eyes widened slightly before she quickly hushed her. "Keep your voice down!" she whispered fiercely. "Yes, I'm pregnant. I'm only one month along."
"And you don't think that's a problem?" Patritica raised an eyebrow.
Before Rosalina could answer, their mother's voice rang through the house.
Mrs. Milne had moved to the sitting room where Mr. John Milne was enjoying his tea. She stood before him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "John, tell me the truth. What's the real story behind Erika and Mr. Rafael? Did they actually get married?"
Mr. John lifted his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with deliberate care. He exhaled, as if contemplating his words.
Instead of answering, he picked up his cup again.
Mrs. Milne's patience snapped. "Did you have a hand in their marriage?" she demanded, her voice dangerously low. "Because I find it impossible to believe that a man of Mr. Rafael's stature would willingly marry a… girl like Erika."
Mr. John's eyes darkened, but his lips curved into a wry smirk. "You should keep your eyes on your own daughters, Narimana. After all, wasn't Rosalina's shameful marriage far worse? Because of her, I can no longer face my guests without embarrassment."
Mrs. Milne's grip tightened on the fabric of her dress. "How dare you? She's your daughter! And you dare compare her to that… that—"
"That 'bitch,' as you call her, might be more useful to me than both of your daughters combined."
Mrs. Milne froze.
Mr. John leaned back, pouring himself a glass of whiskey this time. He coughed as the burn settled in his throat before chuckling bitterly. "All I've ever wanted is an heir. A strong legacy. And what did fate give me? A daughter obsessed with fashion, completely indifferent to our status." His gaze flicked toward the ceiling, as if searching for divine justification. "And another daughter who threw away everything for the foolish notion of love."
Mrs. Milne's lips trembled, but she said nothing.
"But Erika?" He laughed, though there was no humor in it. "At least she knows how to get ahead in life. Maybe your daughters should take notes."
A heavy silence followed.
Then, Mrs. Milne whispered, "That girl will ruin you, John."
Mr. John chuckled darkly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "No one can ruin me, Narimana. I am the strongest."
But beneath the facade, his fingers trembled slightly. He knew that if the world ever uncovered the truth—that Erika was his illegitimate daughter—his empire would crumble.
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Rosalina moved with deliberate seduction. The dim office lights cast a warm glow over her as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
He inhaled sharply, his pulse quickening. "Rosalina, what are you doing?"
She leaned closer, her lips barely an inch from his ear. "Do you make a habit of inviting women to Africa for business trips?"
Mr. Rafael smirked, though his eyes betrayed his intrigue. "I may be a bad manager, but I'm not so bad as to break company rules."
Rosalina straddled his lap, her fingers tracing over the exposed skin of his chest. "Are you afraid someone might walk in?" she teased, pouring herself a glass of wine.
He exhaled, struggling to maintain his restraint. "We should move this to my place," he suggested, gripping her waist.
She smirked, tilting his chin up to meet her gaze. "No."
His breath hitched as she pressed the glass to his lips, making him drink.
It was the first time a woman had taken control like this—had offered herself so boldly, without him even needing to seduce her.
"Here is better," she whispered, her body burning with desire. "It's already past ten. No one's here."
Her eyes glowed with a hunger that matched his own.
And Mr. Rafael, despite himself, gave in.
---