My Landlord's Milky Trap - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading My Landlord's Milky Trap, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of My Landlord's Milky Trap.
I came home with my mind racing, only to find Margaret waiting at the doorstep, arms loaded with shopping bags.
Her face brightened the second she saw me. "Evelyn! Finally! Where have you been? I've been worried sick."
One look at her eager expression and the prenatal vitamins in her hands told me she already knew. No use lying. "I went to the hospital," I admitted flatly.
Her voice sharpened. "The hospital? Why?"
I forced a tight smile. "I needed to confirm the pregnancy."
Her worry deepened as she trailed me inside. The second the door closed, she pounced. "Well? What did they say?"
I hesitated, then pulled the test results from my bag. She snatched the paper, scanning it like a detective hunting for clues.
My stomach twisted as I watched her. "This doesn't make sense. How am I pregnant? Who's the father?"
Margaret's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "This is a blessing," she murmured, suddenly ushering me to the couch like I might break. "You need to rest. No stress, no strain."
I took a steadying breath. "It's only five weeks. Too early for an abortion. I'll go at seven weeks. I can't keep it."
The words barely left my mouth before Margaret jerked upright, horror flashing across her face. "Absolutely not! I forbid it!"
I blinked. "Since when do you get a say?"
She shot to her feet, voice steel. "That's my grandchild! Of course I have a say!"
The words hit me like a slap. "What did you just say?"
She enunciated slowly, like I was stupid. "My grandchild. The baby you're carrying is Noah's."
My world tilted. This couldn't be real.
Margaret squeezed my hand, oozing fake sympathy. "I know it's a shock, but I'll help you raise the baby."
I recoiled. "How the hell did this happen?"
Guilt flickered in her eyes. "When I visited home last month, I gave Noah sleeping pills for his insomnia. Told him to mix them in warm milk. I never thought he'd..." She trailed off meaningfully.
The pieces clicked. Noah's giddy whisper—"Everything's ready, Mom!"
Rage burned through me. "Bullshit. Noah's not that clever. You planned this. You had him drug me!"
Margaret stiffened, caught off guard. After a beat, she lifted her chin. "Doesn't matter now. That baby stays. It's our family's future."
So that was her game. All her "kindness"—just a trap. First to shackle me to her son, now to breed his child.
Ice settled in my chest. "Want the baby? Sign the house over to me. Otherwise, I'm getting rid of it tomorrow."
Her jaw dropped. Shock. Fury. Then—defeat.
Checkmate.
After a long silence, she caved. "Fine. But you carry to term and raise that child."
I nodded coolly. "We'll sign the papers Monday."
No rush. I had moves left to play.
Next day, work was hell. Whispers trailed me. Coworkers "accidentally" bumped my stomach. Disgusting how fast they turned.
I quit on the spot. Assembly lines always need warm bodies—the manager barely blinked.
Margaret cornered me that night. "You left your job?"
I rubbed my belly. "Doctor's orders. Stress isn't good for the baby."
Her eyes lit up. "Smart girl!"
From then on, I played the perfect expectant mother while Margaret juggled work and doting on us.
Monday, she took off early for the property transfer.
The deed in my hands brought no joy—just cold satisfaction.
That night, Margaret cooked a feast to "celebrate our family." She clasped Noah's hand and mine, declaring, "Son, meet your wife."
Noah giggled. "Pretty wife smells like flowers!"
I raised my glass with a plastic smile. "To our bright future."
Margaret drank like it was her last supper.
Within an hour, both she and Noah slumped over the table, eyes glazed.
Turnabout's fair play.
Her face brightened the second she saw me. "Evelyn! Finally! Where have you been? I've been worried sick."
One look at her eager expression and the prenatal vitamins in her hands told me she already knew. No use lying. "I went to the hospital," I admitted flatly.
Her voice sharpened. "The hospital? Why?"
I forced a tight smile. "I needed to confirm the pregnancy."
Her worry deepened as she trailed me inside. The second the door closed, she pounced. "Well? What did they say?"
I hesitated, then pulled the test results from my bag. She snatched the paper, scanning it like a detective hunting for clues.
My stomach twisted as I watched her. "This doesn't make sense. How am I pregnant? Who's the father?"
Margaret's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "This is a blessing," she murmured, suddenly ushering me to the couch like I might break. "You need to rest. No stress, no strain."
I took a steadying breath. "It's only five weeks. Too early for an abortion. I'll go at seven weeks. I can't keep it."
The words barely left my mouth before Margaret jerked upright, horror flashing across her face. "Absolutely not! I forbid it!"
I blinked. "Since when do you get a say?"
She shot to her feet, voice steel. "That's my grandchild! Of course I have a say!"
The words hit me like a slap. "What did you just say?"
She enunciated slowly, like I was stupid. "My grandchild. The baby you're carrying is Noah's."
My world tilted. This couldn't be real.
Margaret squeezed my hand, oozing fake sympathy. "I know it's a shock, but I'll help you raise the baby."
I recoiled. "How the hell did this happen?"
Guilt flickered in her eyes. "When I visited home last month, I gave Noah sleeping pills for his insomnia. Told him to mix them in warm milk. I never thought he'd..." She trailed off meaningfully.
The pieces clicked. Noah's giddy whisper—"Everything's ready, Mom!"
Rage burned through me. "Bullshit. Noah's not that clever. You planned this. You had him drug me!"
Margaret stiffened, caught off guard. After a beat, she lifted her chin. "Doesn't matter now. That baby stays. It's our family's future."
So that was her game. All her "kindness"—just a trap. First to shackle me to her son, now to breed his child.
Ice settled in my chest. "Want the baby? Sign the house over to me. Otherwise, I'm getting rid of it tomorrow."
Her jaw dropped. Shock. Fury. Then—defeat.
Checkmate.
After a long silence, she caved. "Fine. But you carry to term and raise that child."
I nodded coolly. "We'll sign the papers Monday."
No rush. I had moves left to play.
Next day, work was hell. Whispers trailed me. Coworkers "accidentally" bumped my stomach. Disgusting how fast they turned.
I quit on the spot. Assembly lines always need warm bodies—the manager barely blinked.
Margaret cornered me that night. "You left your job?"
I rubbed my belly. "Doctor's orders. Stress isn't good for the baby."
Her eyes lit up. "Smart girl!"
From then on, I played the perfect expectant mother while Margaret juggled work and doting on us.
Monday, she took off early for the property transfer.
The deed in my hands brought no joy—just cold satisfaction.
That night, Margaret cooked a feast to "celebrate our family." She clasped Noah's hand and mine, declaring, "Son, meet your wife."
Noah giggled. "Pretty wife smells like flowers!"
I raised my glass with a plastic smile. "To our bright future."
Margaret drank like it was her last supper.
Within an hour, both she and Noah slumped over the table, eyes glazed.
Turnabout's fair play.
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