Chapter 2: A House Without a Home

Ryan had always believed that money was the only thing missing in his life. After marrying Rachel, he quickly understood she was not as rich as he thought. Her stepbrother William had left her with nothing. At first, Ryan was angry. He wanted to leave, but pride held him back. He couldn’t walk away with empty hands. So he made a decision. If Rachel couldn’t give him wealth, he would get it himself—fast. He started meeting people who smiled in suits but spoke in secrets. One of them, Mark Lewis, told him, “Real money lives outside the law.” Ryan didn’t care. He wanted more. He didn’t ask how or why. He just nodded. And the game began.

Within a year, Ryan’s name started showing up in social circles. He bought a second-hand luxury car. He moved Rachel into a better apartment—new walls, soft lights, a small balcony with flower pots. People outside thought they were happy. Neighbors smiled at them. Visitors said, “What a lovely home.” But inside that home, something deep was missing. It wasn’t the furniture. It wasn’t the food. It was love.

Rachel stood in the kitchen that morning, cutting carrots slowly. The fridge door had a small crack near the handle. The stove clicked before it lit. She wore a soft sweater with faded sleeves. Her eyes were tired, not because she hadn’t slept, but because she had hoped too much. Ryan walked in, looked at the fridge, opened it, and sighed. “There’s nothing good,” he said, like it was her fault. He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t notice her silence. He took a bottle of water, checked his phone, and walked out again.

That night, Rachel set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. Rice, vegetables, and a small candle. She waited three hours. The food went cold. The candle burned low. When Ryan finally arrived, he was not drunk, but distant. He looked around, took off his shoes, and said nothing. “You’re late,” Rachel said gently. “I waited.” Ryan looked at her without emotion. “I had meetings.” She touched his hand. “I made your favorite.” He pulled away. “I’m not hungry.” He went into the bedroom. Closed the door. Rachel sat down and ate alone. The food tasted like silence.

The next week, Ryan’s parents visited. His mother, Linda, carried a small box of homemade cookies. His father, James, brought a book about family. Rachel welcomed them in with soft warmth. But Ryan wasn’t pleased. “Why didn’t you call?” he asked coldly. “We thought we’d surprise you,” Linda said. Ryan gave a weak smile. “I don’t like surprises.” He walked into the kitchen and didn’t return. Rachel tried her best to make them feel welcome. She served tea, talked kindly, and even laughed once. But James noticed. He leaned closer to her and asked, “Is everything alright?” Rachel nodded. But her eyes said something else.

Before leaving, Linda looked around and said, “You’ve made a nice home, son.” James added, “But it feels empty.” Ryan didn’t reply. He just looked at his phone. Linda touched his hand one last time and said, “Money is not enough if love doesn’t live here.” They left quietly. Rachel watched them go, standing at the door. She looked back at the couch. Ryan didn’t even say goodbye.

One morning, Rachel felt strange. Her body was tired, her stomach uneasy. She went to the clinic. The doctor smiled and said, “Congratulations.” Rachel blinked. “I’m going to be a mother?” The doctor nodded. Rachel held the paper close to her chest as she walked home. That evening, she lit candles and made Ryan’s favorite food again. When he came in, she stood by the table and said, “I have news.” Ryan barely looked up. “What is it?” She took his hand. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, the room froze. Ryan didn’t speak. Then he pulled away. “This is not the time, Rachel.” She looked at him, her eyes soft. “Maybe not. But it’s our baby.” Ryan shook his head. “No. It’s your problem. Not mine.” He grabbed his keys and walked out.

That night, Rachel sat by the window. She whispered to the little life inside her. “I don’t have money. But I have love. And I will protect you.” The moonlight came through the curtain and touched her face. Her eyes were open, but her heart was sinking.

Weeks passed. Ryan grew more cold. He came home late. He drank more. He laughed with people outside but never with Rachel. He never asked about the baby. Never offered a kind word. Rachel stopped talking. She wrote letters but never gave them. She started talking to the baby inside her, whispering stories, singing soft songs.

One evening, she called out to Ryan. “Can we talk?” He was near the door, putting on his jacket. “I don’t have time.” “Please, just five minutes.” He sighed. “Make it quick.” Rachel stood there, holding her belly. “Do you still want this marriage?” Ryan didn’t look at her. “This is not a love story, Rachel. This is survival. And I’m doing it my way.” He opened the door and left.

Rachel stood in the hallway, alone again. She turned and looked at the living room. It was clean. It was quiet. It was cold. That night she didn’t cry. She just stared at the ceiling. And for the first time, she thought, Maybe he will never come back. Not truly.

Outside, the world thought Ryan Carter was doing well. He had a car. A house. New shoes. A new watch. But inside, he was hollow. He didn’t know it yet, but he was building a life that would one day collapse in silence.