A Second Chance For The Billionaire

12. Manoela Ferraz

The smell of rice with garlic and sautéed vegetables filled the narrow kitchen of the apartment.

My feet ached, but I kept stirring the pan with the wooden spoon, trying not to overthink. It was Friday. The house was silent—no music, no footsteps, no shouting. Roger still hadn't arrived. And as strange as it seemed... it was the first time this week that he was coming home early.

Maybe this was a sign.

Maybe today he would be calmer. More present.

Maybe.

I turned off the stove, adjusted my hair with my fingers, and went to the small cupboard. I grabbed the two least chipped plates and set them on the table along with the glass cups. Everything simple. Everything clean. Everything in order, the way he liked it.

I looked around, scanning the worn-out furniture, the wobbly chairs, the old living room curtain. A setting far from the life I had imagined for myself—and even further from what my baby deserved.

"How am I going to raise you, huh?" I whispered to my belly, touching it with the palm of my hand.

Because that was the question that kept me up at night.

If I kept working, how would I take care of her? If I left my job, how would I pay the rent? And if Roger... didn't want this child?

The doorbell broke my thoughts.

I went to the door and opened it cautiously. Roger walked in, throwing his jacket on the sofa with a loud sigh, his face sweaty, his eyes red. His unshaven beard was messier than usual.

"Hi," I ventured, with a restrained smile.

He grunted something I couldn't understand.

I thought about letting it go, but today I wanted to try. I needed to try. For me. For her.

"I made dinner," I said, trying to sound light. "There's rice, vegetables, roasted meat..."

"Finally something decent in this house," he muttered, without looking at me.

I swallowed hard, but kept my voice steady.

"I set the table. Everything's ready."

He walked right past me and went to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of soda from the fridge, filled his glass almost to the brim, sat down at the table, and started eating as if nothing was out of place.

I sat across from him, watching in silence.

I waited a few minutes until I gathered the courage.

"I went to the clinic today," I began, calmly. "I had my first prenatal appointment."

Roger kept chewing, without looking up.

"I heard her heartbeat..." I insisted, trying to get some reaction. "It's strong. Healthy. The nurse said everything is going well."

He paused for a second, finally looking up.

"Her?"

I nodded, trying to smile.

"It's just a guess for now. But... I don't know. I feel like it's a girl."

Roger let out a dry laugh.

"Of course you do. Women always think they have some magical connection with these things."

My hand tightened around the fork.

"I just wanted to share it with you. I thought maybe you'd want to know."

He stared at me for a few seconds. His eyes devoid of sparkle. Without warmth.

"The only thing I know is that you're getting fat," he said, cutting another piece of meat. "I don't know how you can still wear those clothes."

It was like a slap.

The fork fell from my hand.

"Roger..."

"Are you listening to me?" he continued. "Your belly is already showing. It's going to scare off the customers at that café where you work."

His voice was low, but the venom in it was clear. It cut deep.

"I'm pregnant, Roger. The least you could do is stop humiliating me."

He slammed his cutlery on the table, and I flinched instinctively.

"Don't take that tone with me, Manu. I'm the one who brought you into this house. I'm the one paying the bills. And now you want me to smile like an i***t for this child that I don't even know if it's mine?"

I swallowed hard. This was new. Even crueler than usual.

"You know it is," I whispered.

"Know?" he laughed, a cynical and bitter laugh. "You spent five months hiding this from me, and now you want me to believe it?"

"I hid it because you disappear. Because you scream. Because you look at me like I'm a burden." My voice faltered. "Do you think this is easy for me?"

He got up from the table and threw his napkin on the plate, making everything rattle.

"I'm done with this conversation." He went to the sofa, turned on the television, and turned up the volume as if he wanted to erase me from there.

I stood still for a few seconds, motionless.

Then I slowly got up, gathered the dishes from the table, washed everything in silence, and went back to the bedroom.

I lay on the bed on my side, hugging the pillow, my hand resting on my belly as if it were the only thing keeping me alive there.

I felt the lump in my throat grow, my breathing grow heavy. But I refused to cry in front of him.

Not anymore.

I waited more than half an hour. I heard the television turn off and his snoring begin.

Then I got up, changed my clothes, and left through the front door in silence.

The bus came quickly. I climbed the steps without looking at the driver and went straight to the back. The cold of the early morning hit the window and made everything look even grayer.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and let the tears flow, finally. There, in the dark. Where no one could see me. Where I didn't have to be strong.

I cried for myself. For the daughter growing in silence. For the absence of affection. But above all, I cried because even broken... Tomorrow, at noon, I would have to sit in front of Ravi.

And pretend I wasn't falling apart inside.