Alejandro looked at the baby gripping his finger.
Then at me.
“Whose child is he?”
I swallowed.
“Possibly yours.”
His entire face went blank.
“Possibly?”
Our son chose that exact moment to smile.
The dimple appeared.
Alejandro’s dimple.
I closed my eyes.
“Fine.”
I looked at him.
“Most likely yours.”
For several seconds, the president of Pei Group—who could silence a boardroom by raising one eyebrow—looked genuinely incapable of speech.
Then:
“The Imperial Hotel.”
“Yes.”
His hand tightened slightly around the baby’s tiny fingers.
“You were the woman in room 1708?”
“You were the man who refused to give me his name.”
“You left before I woke up.”
“You left a black card on the table!”
“That was because I didn’t know whether you needed—”
“Money?”
His ears turned red.
“That sounded better in my head.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then I remembered the important part.
“You remember that night?”
Alejandro stared at me.
“Every minute I was conscious.”
My heart stopped.
“You knew?”
“Not at first.”
He looked down at the baby.
“But on our wedding night, when you asked about the Imperial Hotel…”
He exhaled slowly.
“I suspected.”
I stared at him.
“And you said nothing?”
“You were already three months pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“You had refused to name the father.”
“Yes.”
“And my entire family believed I could never have children.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“What was I supposed to say?”
I crossed my arms.
“Perhaps, ‘Hello, wife, I may have gotten you pregnant three months ago’?”
He looked genuinely offended.
“That would have been extremely awkward.”
“We were already married!”
“That did not make it less awkward.”
I burst out laughing.
After six months of strange marriage, separate schedules and polite conversations, that was the first time I laughed so hard in front of him that I had tears in my eyes.
Alejandro stared.
Then his mouth twitched.
The dimple appeared.
Our son immediately smiled again.
I stopped laughing.
Pointed at both of them.
“There.”
Alejandro frowned.
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“The dimple.”
He touched his cheek.
The baby copied the expression.
We both went silent.
Then Alejandro said:
“We’re doing a paternity test.”
“Agreed.”
The result arrived four days later.
Probability of paternity: greater than 99.9%.
Alejandro read the report once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
His mother was sitting across the room.
I had not invited her.
She had somehow appeared thirty seconds after the laboratory called.
Mrs. Pei snatched the report from her son’s hands.
Her eyes widened.
Then she slapped Alejandro on the shoulder.
“You little liar!”
He stared at her.
“Mother?”
“You told everyone you were sterile!”
“I never told anyone that.”
“You allowed us to believe it!”
“Because every time I tried to correct Grandmother, she brought me photographs of six eligible women.”
Mrs. Pei stopped.
“That is… understandable.”
I blinked.
“What exactly happened to the famous childhood injury?”
Alejandro sighed.
“The injury was real.”
“But?”
“But the conclusion everyone repeated for years was exaggerated.”
His mother folded her arms.
“Exaggerated?”
Alejandro looked uncomfortable.
“As an adult, I underwent proper testing.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“And?”
“My fertility was reduced.”
He looked toward our son.
“Clearly not absent.”
I grabbed a cushion and threw it at him.
“You knew for two years?”
He caught it.
“Yes.”
“And still married a pregnant woman while telling her you needed an heir for appearances?”
“I never said I needed a fake heir.”
“You said you would recognize someone else’s child!”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That stopped him.
His mother slowly stood.
“I think I should leave.”
I pointed at her.
“You absolutely should not. You knew something.”
She became very interested in the curtains.
“Mother.”
Alejandro’s voice hardened.
Mrs. Pei sighed.
“Fine.”
Then she looked at me.
“When your father proposed the marriage, Alejandro asked for your file.”
“My file?”
“Background.”
“Education.”
“Family.”
“Medical situation.”
My face changed.
She hurriedly added:
“Only what your father had already disclosed.”
Then:
“When he saw your photograph, he agreed immediately.”
I turned toward Alejandro.
He looked as if he wanted the floor to open.
“Why?”
No answer.
“Alejandro.”
His mother smiled.
“I’m leaving now.”
She fled.
Traitor.
I turned back to my husband.
“You recognized me before the wedding?”
He was silent.
I narrowed my eyes.
“How long?”
He finally said:
“The first meeting.”
My mouth fell open.
“You knew who I was?”
“I suspected.”
“You said ‘Miss Su’ like we were strangers!”
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“You married me knowing there was a chance the baby was yours?”
“Yes.”
“And you never said anything?”
His voice became quieter.
“I thought you didn’t want me to know.”
That answer silenced me.
He continued:
“You had three months to look for me.”
“You didn’t.”
“I assumed that meant you regretted that night.”
I looked away.
The truth was more embarrassing.
“I didn’t know your name.”
“You had my card.”
“A black card with no name.”
He blinked.
Then rubbed his forehead.
“My assistant told me later that was stupid.”
“Your assistant is intelligent.”
“Unfortunately.”
I sat down.
The baby made a soft sound from his crib.
After a moment, I asked:
“Why were you at the hotel injured?”
Alejandro’s expression darkened.
“A business dispute became physical.”
He did not elaborate.
I did not ask for details.
He continued:
“I had gone there to avoid bringing trouble home.”
“You found me in the hallway.”
I remembered.
A stranger leaning against the wall.
Blood on his sleeve.
A storm outside.
I had helped him inside because I thought he might collapse.
One thing had become another.
But he had asked me several times whether I was certain.
I had been.
The next morning, he was gone.
I thought that was the end.
Instead, six months later, he was standing in front of me holding our son.
I whispered:
“So you agreed to marry me because you thought the baby might be yours?”
“Partly.”
My chest tightened.
“What was the other part?”
Alejandro looked at me.
“You were the first woman in years who spoke to me like I was simply a man having a terrible night.”
I stared at him.
“You insulted my driving.”
“You nearly hit a planter.”
“You called my shirt ugly.”
“It was ugly.”
His dimple appeared.
Then he became serious.
“I remembered you.”
My heart started doing inconvenient things.
“But I didn’t know whether you remembered me kindly.”
“So I accepted the marriage as a contract.”
“That way, if you wanted nothing else from me…”
He looked toward the baby.
“…I could still protect both of you without asking for something you hadn’t offered.”
For once, I had no sarcastic reply.
Our marriage changed after that.
Not immediately.
Alejandro did not suddenly become warm and talkative.
That would have been terrifying.
He was still Alejandro Pei.
He scheduled conversations.
He sent calendar invitations for pediatric appointments even though we lived in the same house.
He once emailed me:
Subject: Dinner
Would 7:30 p.m. be acceptable?
I walked into his study.
“We are married.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can ask me dinner questions without email.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“You sent it from fifteen meters away.”
He looked mildly embarrassed.
Progress.
Slowly, he started coming home earlier.
Not because I demanded it.
Because he wanted to bathe his son.
The first time the baby spit milk all over his expensive shirt, Alejandro stared down at himself in horror.
I laughed for five minutes.
He did not.
Then the baby laughed.
Alejandro immediately smiled.
Traitor number two.
One evening, I finally asked the question that had bothered me for months.
“Those nights you stayed away…”
He looked up from the crib.
“What about them?”
“People said you had lovers.”
He stared at me.
Then:
“Which people?”
“That isn’t important.”
“It feels important.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“Then where were you?”
“Working.”
“That much?”
“Yes.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He added:
“And sometimes sleeping in the office.”
“Why?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Because you were pregnant.”
I waited.
“And?”
“And I didn’t know whether sharing a room would make you uncomfortable after what happened at the hotel.”
I stared at him.
“You avoided your own wife for six months because you were trying to respect my boundaries?”
“Yes.”
“You could have asked.”
He frowned.
“You could also have asked why I was away.”
We stared at each other.
Then I started laughing.
Again.
Our entire marriage had nearly been destroyed by two people trying so hard not to impose on each other that neither one said anything useful.
Our son turned one in spring.
At his birthday dinner, my father lifted him into the air.
Then stared accusingly at Alejandro.
“So it was you.”
Alejandro went very still.
My father pointed at him.
“For a year, I imagined finding that irresponsible man!”
“Dad.”
“I chased my pregnant daughter around a garden with a sandal!”
Alejandro looked at me.
“You left that part out.”
“It wasn’t relevant.”
My father reached for his slipper.
Alejandro took one step backward.
“Mr. Su.”
“You!”
“Dad!”
My mother laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Eventually, my father lowered the slipper.
Then he looked at the grandson in his arms.
The baby smiled.
The dimple appeared.
Dad sighed.
“I can’t even deny it.”
No one could.
Two years after our arranged wedding, Alejandro asked me to dinner.
In person.
No email.
We returned home afterward.
The living room was quiet.
Our son was sleeping upstairs.
Alejandro placed a small box on the table.
I frowned.
“What is that?”
“A ring.”
“I have a ring.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“The first one was part of an agreement between two families.”
I looked at him.
“And this?”
“This one isn’t.”
He opened the box.
Then, very seriously, asked:
“Sofia Su, would you marry me?”
I stared.
“We are married.”
“I am aware.”
“Legally.”
“Yes.”
“People attended the wedding.”
“I remember.”
I started smiling.
“Alejandro, what exactly are you proposing?”
He looked at me.
“A marriage where neither of us is cooperating.”
My smile disappeared.
He continued:
“No contract.”
“No assumptions.”
“No heir requirement.”
“No pretending our son belongs to me because I agreed to claim him.”
“He belongs to me because I’m his father.”
“And I want you because you are Sofia.”
He took a breath.
“If you say no, nothing changes about our parenting.”
That was the sentence that decided it.
Not the ring.
Not the dimple.
Not even the hotel.
“If I say yes?”
His ears turned red.
“I was hoping we could have an actual honeymoon.”
I laughed.
Then held out my hand.
“Yes.”
Years later, our son found the original marriage agreement in an old box.
He was seven.
He read only one sentence before looking horrified.
“Dad thought I wasn’t his?”
Alejandro immediately took the document away.
“That document is ancient history.”
Our son pointed at him.
“But I look exactly like you!”
“I know that now.”
“How did you not know?”
I entered the room carrying laundry.
“Because your father is very intelligent about companies and very stupid about people.”
Alejandro frowned.
“This family has no respect.”
Our son grinned.
Same dimple.
Same eyes.
Same offended forehead.
I looked at both of them.
There had been a time when I thought my pregnancy had destroyed my future.
My father thought I needed someone to hide the scandal.
The Pei family thought Alejandro needed an heir.
Alejandro thought he was agreeing to raise another man’s child.
And I thought I had married a stranger who could never become a real husband.
We were all wrong.
The supposedly sterile tycoon was the father.
The supposedly arranged marriage became the safest relationship I had ever known.
And the baby everyone thought needed a convenient last name grew up with a father who never missed bedtime unless work truly made it impossible.
The funniest part?
For years people whispered that Alejandro Pei had nobly accepted another man’s son.
Nobody ever knew that every time our child frowned, smiled or raised one eyebrow—
Alejandro was basically looking into a small, extremely judgmental mirror.
And every time I reminded him of it, he gave me the same answer:
“I know. You really should have told me sooner.”
To which I always replied:
“You really should have put your name on the black card.”
