Please Don’t Say You Love Me

Remi Sloan had been married to the top scion of the elite circle for five years. To outsiders, their marriage looked like a fairy tale. Everyone said he adored her—that he would even give his life for her if she asked. However, because she could not get pregnant, a few hints from her in-laws became outright demands.

The man who had held her hands and promised to protect her for the rest of her life on their wedding day cried in front of her.

“Be good… I can’t hold on anymore.”

So this was how short a man’s promise could be, because less than two months later, she saw him supporting a pregnant woman in the hospital's obstetrics department, his movements gentle.

“My baby is surely going to look just like his dad when he grows up. With his dad’s sharp brows and bright eyes, he’ll be ridiculously handsome. And maybe he’ll even have the same little red mole at the corner of his eye.”

The woman’s voice rang out down the otherwise quiet hospital hallway, loud and almost shrill. A few people turned to look, and so did Remi Sloan. The woman was wearing a mask, but her eyes were filled with undisguised pride.

As Remi listened to the description of the baby’s future looks, someone else came to mind—her husband of five years, James Hudson. In their social circle, he was known as the son of one of the most powerful families in the city, and he, too, had a small red mole at the corner of his eye.

Just as Remi was about to step forward and ask the woman something, her name was called over the hospital intercom.

Across the desk, the doctor held her medical report with a grave expression. Remi’s hands clenched tightly together. Her chest felt tight, as if a giant hand was squeezing her heart.

After what felt like forever, the doctor finally spoke.

“Ms. Sloan, all your physical indicators are normal. As for why you haven’t been able to conceive after all these years, we’re not entirely sure. You may need to undergo further testing…”

The doctor continued speaking, but Remi could not hear a word. All she could think about was that her body was normal, and yet, for five years, she still had not gotten pregnant.

She walked out of the consultation room in a daze and sat down on a bench in the hallway, staring blankly at the report in her hands. Tears fell one after another, soaking the paper.

She and James had grown up together as childhood sweethearts. Everyone in their circle knew she was his one true love. When she was seventeen, he had called her out beneath the old sycamore tree in their neighborhood. Under the moonlight, his face flushed red as he pulled out over a hundred handwritten love letters he had secretly written over the years. Stammering, he confessed.

On the day she turned twenty—the legal marriage age—he proposed without hesitation.

“Remi,”