The Night Before I Became His Wife, the Night He Became a Father Chapter 08

The Night Before I Became His Wife, the Night He Became a Father Chapter 08

Three days later, every major website in New York City, every prominent newspaper, and every public news outlet began spreading the same story.

The only son of the Davenport family, the richest family in the city, was going to hold an unimaginably grand wedding of the century.

Everyone who mattered had been invited as a guest.

At the venue alone, more than a thousand bottles of wine worth five figures each had been opened, and even the cheapest hors d’oeuvres were made with premium foie gras.

It was extravagance pushed to the absolute extreme.

But when the wedding officiant invited the bride to enter, everyone froze.

What came through the doors was a framed memorial portrait being carried in someone’s hands.

Damian, the Davenport heir, smiled at the portrait with an almost deranged tenderness.

Then he held it carefully in his arms and solemnly completed every part of the wedding ceremony.

A few prominent guests found the whole thing absurd and tried to leave, only to be stopped by bodyguards who had already sealed off the exits and forced them back into their seats.

Not until everyone obediently finished the banquet were they finally allowed to go.

Throughout the entire reception, everyone was whispering that the Davenport heir had completely lost his mind.

At that very moment, Damian had returned home.

He placed Ivy’s photograph on the pillow with almost reverent care and said, “Baby, wait here for me. I’m going to take a shower.”

He washed himself with obsessive seriousness. The hot water poured over him as he scrubbed again and again until red marks rose on his skin.

“Baby, I’m not dirty anymore. Please don’t be disgusted with me.”

He curled up on the empty king-size bed and clutched the memorial portrait to his chest as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

“You loved me the most, but you were the cruelest one.”

“You left me nothing. You wouldn’t even let me see you one last time.”

A tear fell onto the pillow.

Damian kept murmuring.

“But it’s okay. As long as I don’t forget you, that’s enough.”

He gently kissed the woman’s face in the photograph.

All of a sudden, a violent cramp exploded in his stomach.

Cold sweat broke out across his already pale face.

But as if he were punishing himself, he stubbornly curled even tighter.

“Ivy, my stomach hurts.”

The bedroom was dark and silent.

No one answered.

“Ivy, I miss you.”