My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care.
I spun around, only to realize Richard remained completely oblivious to my presence. His back stayed turned as he moved about the kitchen.
He was doing that while thinking of me.
Heat flooded my cheeks—equal parts humiliation and fury.
I should've been livid, but instead, a reckless impulse shot through me—an almost irresistible urge to close the distance and press myself against him.
I couldn't stay under the same roof another second. If I did, God only knew what I might do.
Grabbing just my keys and phone, I bolted outside, barely registering that my postpartum recovery wasn't even complete.
The streets offered no refuge. As I wandered, the crushing truth hit me: I had nowhere to go.
My parents' house? Out of the question. Showing up alone in this state would have the neighborhood tongues wagging before sunset.
My in-laws' place? Who'd protect me there? Who could I trust?
Richard?
Just his name sent my pulse skittering. In mere days, he'd somehow gotten under my skin.
This was insane. Wrong.
I needed to kill these feelings.
The sweltering heat drove me into the nearest mall, where icy AC and distraction awaited. As I mindlessly passed glittering displays, a familiar silhouette froze me mid-step.
Eric.
My husband stood hand-in-hand with some twenty-something, grinning like he hadn't since our wedding day. Their intimacy was nauseating—his fingers tracing her waist, her laughter tinkling as she leaned into him.
He was cheating.
How long? Who was she?
White-hot rage seared through me. My vision blurred as fists clenched, nails biting into palms. Tears fell unchecked while I fumbled for my phone, snapping photo after damning photo. Each click of the shutter carved another piece from my heart.
Sobs wracked my body as I documented their every touch, their every laugh. Shoppers edged away, casting confused glances.
Evidence secured, I still couldn't face him. I fled like a coward.
The house stood silent when I returned. Slipping off my shoes, I found Richard asleep on the couch, William cradled safely against his chest.
Even in sleep, he protected my son—unlike Eric, who'd rolled onto the baby twice for his own comfort. And Margaret? She'd either vanish to her mahjong games or suddenly take "ill" if left alone with William for more than an hour.
Fresh betrayal curdled in my stomach as I watched them. Then it came—a dark, glittering idea taking root with terrifying clarity.
I wouldn't just make Margaret pay. Eric would too.
And Richard Lowell? He'd be my perfect weapon.
The tears stopped. Fetching a fleece blanket, I draped it over Richard. He stirred instantly—light sleeper—then blinked up at me with sleep-softened eyes that warmed when they focused on my face.
"Vivian." His voice was rough with sleep. "You're back. Must be exhausted—I kept dinner warm. Your favorite—pork lettuce wraps."
Something fragile and warm unfurled in my chest. No one had treated me this tenderly in years.
This time, I didn't refuse. "Thank you," I murmured. "I'm starving."
At the table, Richard—who'd clearly eaten already—lingered to keep me company. Four Sichuan dishes and soup waited, each painstakingly prepared.
Watching his careful restraint, I let my slipper slide off under the table. My bare toes brushed his exposed calf—a featherlight, deliberate caress.
He wore shorts. My skin met his.
And just like that, the game began.
He was doing that while thinking of me.
Heat flooded my cheeks—equal parts humiliation and fury.
I should've been livid, but instead, a reckless impulse shot through me—an almost irresistible urge to close the distance and press myself against him.
I couldn't stay under the same roof another second. If I did, God only knew what I might do.
Grabbing just my keys and phone, I bolted outside, barely registering that my postpartum recovery wasn't even complete.
The streets offered no refuge. As I wandered, the crushing truth hit me: I had nowhere to go.
My parents' house? Out of the question. Showing up alone in this state would have the neighborhood tongues wagging before sunset.
My in-laws' place? Who'd protect me there? Who could I trust?
Richard?
Just his name sent my pulse skittering. In mere days, he'd somehow gotten under my skin.
This was insane. Wrong.
I needed to kill these feelings.
The sweltering heat drove me into the nearest mall, where icy AC and distraction awaited. As I mindlessly passed glittering displays, a familiar silhouette froze me mid-step.
Eric.
My husband stood hand-in-hand with some twenty-something, grinning like he hadn't since our wedding day. Their intimacy was nauseating—his fingers tracing her waist, her laughter tinkling as she leaned into him.
He was cheating.
How long? Who was she?
White-hot rage seared through me. My vision blurred as fists clenched, nails biting into palms. Tears fell unchecked while I fumbled for my phone, snapping photo after damning photo. Each click of the shutter carved another piece from my heart.
Sobs wracked my body as I documented their every touch, their every laugh. Shoppers edged away, casting confused glances.
Evidence secured, I still couldn't face him. I fled like a coward.
The house stood silent when I returned. Slipping off my shoes, I found Richard asleep on the couch, William cradled safely against his chest.
Even in sleep, he protected my son—unlike Eric, who'd rolled onto the baby twice for his own comfort. And Margaret? She'd either vanish to her mahjong games or suddenly take "ill" if left alone with William for more than an hour.
Fresh betrayal curdled in my stomach as I watched them. Then it came—a dark, glittering idea taking root with terrifying clarity.
I wouldn't just make Margaret pay. Eric would too.
And Richard Lowell? He'd be my perfect weapon.
The tears stopped. Fetching a fleece blanket, I draped it over Richard. He stirred instantly—light sleeper—then blinked up at me with sleep-softened eyes that warmed when they focused on my face.
"Vivian." His voice was rough with sleep. "You're back. Must be exhausted—I kept dinner warm. Your favorite—pork lettuce wraps."
Something fragile and warm unfurled in my chest. No one had treated me this tenderly in years.
This time, I didn't refuse. "Thank you," I murmured. "I'm starving."
At the table, Richard—who'd clearly eaten already—lingered to keep me company. Four Sichuan dishes and soup waited, each painstakingly prepared.
Watching his careful restraint, I let my slipper slide off under the table. My bare toes brushed his exposed calf—a featherlight, deliberate caress.
He wore shorts. My skin met his.
And just like that, the game began.
End of My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to My FIL’s Forbidden Postpartum Care book page.