How an Extra Stole the Tragic Lead's Heart

1 I was supposed to be a nobody in this story—a passing extra who made a reckless, lust-fueled mistake and ended up in the second male lead's bed. The next morning, he slid a five-million-dollar check across the nightstand. I was about to reach for it when a strange, glowing scroll of text—a virtual wall of comments—flashed across my vision. “The second male lead is so tragic. The moment he found out the female lead got married, he completely lost his mind. He donated every cent of his fortune and burned himself alive in his townhouse.” “And to think, this random extra was actually carrying his baby. She could have left him a legacy, but she was just using him for a quick hookup. She took the cash and ran, leaving him to rot.” My hand froze inches from the check. I pulled my fingers back, looking him straight in the eyes. "Five million to raise a child? In this economy? Honestly, it's a bit tight." Ethan Hawthorne blinked, his icy composure faltering. "What? Since when does raising a kid require that much capital?" Ethan stared at me, his gaze dropping to my flat stomach. "It’s been exactly one night," he muttered, his voice tight. "There's no guarantee you're even pregnant." He reached for his phone on the nightstand. "I'll have my assistant run to the pharmacy and get some emergency contraception." "I'm severely allergic to morning-after pills," I lied smoothly, shaking my head. "The active hormones put me straight into anaphylactic shock." I leaned back against the headboard, crossing my arms. "But what if I am pregnant? You aren't seriously planning to leave me and our child to fend for ourselves with a measry five million, are you?" "If it happens, you can always get an ab—" "How can you be so heartless?" I gasped, looking at him with deep, theatrical condemnation. "The poor baby hasn't even had a chance to see the world, and you're already plotting its demise?" "Besides," I continued, letting my voice tremble slightly, "I have a delicate constitution. If I undergo a procedure like that, my doctor says I might never be able to conceive again." Ethan looked deeply conflicted, his jaw clenching as he tried to process this sudden complication. I didn't press him. Instead, I let out a heavy, tragic sigh and slid out from the other side of the bed, wrapping the sheet around myself. "Never mind." "If I really am pregnant, I'll just carry her to term and find a nice family to adopt her. It’s a hard life, growing up in foster care, never knowing who your real parents are. If she's a girl, she’ll probably have an even tougher time... but I suppose that's just her hand in life." "Wait!" Ethan couldn't take it anymore. He lunged across the bed and caught my wrist. "Just... let's wait and see if you actually are pregnant first. If the test is positive, I'll make proper arrangements." He snatched the check from the table and shoved it back into my hand. "Take the money for now." "If you insist," I said, slipping the check under my pillow. We exchanged contact information, and as I walked out of the hotel suite, the glowing comments floated before my eyes again. “Wait, the plot is changing? Is it because of this extra?” “Whatever the reason, at least he’s alive for now...” “Ethan is honestly the most tragic character. He never received a shred of warmth growing up, except for that one time the female lead was nice to him.” “That's why he treats Madelyn like his absolute savior, building an entire corporate empire just to impress her. But she just treats him like a convenient backup option, discarding him when she’s done. I really hope he finds a reason to live.” I quietly pocketed my phone. A man this stunningly attractive and wealthy shouldn't be allowed to burn himself to ash. I was going to keep him too busy to die. Over the next two weeks, I used his five million dollars to thoroughly upgrade my living situation. The virtual comments popped up occasionally, warning me that his mental health was spiraling. Every time the screen hinted he was getting close to the edge, I sent him a text. I’ve been feeling really nauseous lately. I think it might be happening. He would reply almost instantly: Have you tested yet? Not yet. It's still too early. I kept him dangling on a thread. Two weeks later, I sat in the waiting room of a private prenatal clinic. Suddenly, the virtual comments began to scroll at a manic pace. “Oh no! Richard and Madelyn’s wedding is today! And they actually had the cruelty to send Ethan an invitation!” “He’s watching them exchange vows right now. He’s completely broken. He’s heading back to his place to swallow a bottle of pills!” “Someone do something! Ethan, don't do it!” 2 My heart leaped. I quickly pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the positive pregnancy test in my hand, and sent it to him. I'm pregnant. You're not going to flake on me, are you? The three dots appeared immediately. After a tense minute, a reply came through. Where are you? I pinned the clinic’s location and sent it. In less than twenty minutes, a sleek black town car screeched to a halt outside the clinic doors. Ethan burst through the entrance, looking completely disheveled. He stared at the test result in my hand, then looked down at my perfectly flat stomach, utterly dazed. I couldn't help but laugh. "It’s only been two weeks, Ethan. It’s barely a cluster of cells. What are you looking for?" Before he could speak, I pressed the issue. "You promised you'd take responsibility if it happened. If you want to back out, I'll start looking at adoption agencies today." "I never said I was backing out," he said, clearing his throat. He took my hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "Come with me. You're moving into my place." He drove us to his suburban villa on the lakefront. It was a beautiful, secluded estate surrounded by towering pines and crisp, fresh air. I made myself right at home, wandering through the spacious rooms. "This is perfect. I’ll take the master suite. Also, since this is my first pregnancy, we’re going to need a team of professional prenatal nannies and a specialized chef. Any objections?" "No," Ethan murmured, his voice hollow as he pulled out his phone to instruct his assistant. I settled into the villa. The staff Ethan hired was top-tier, preparing meticulously balanced meals and guiding me through every stage of prenatal care. But Ethan remained a ghost in his own home, spending most of his time locked in his study. One evening, around midnight, I woke up to a sudden flurry of comments hovering near my ceiling. “Since the wedding, Madelyn has been posting nonstop couple goals on Instagram. Even her husband feeding her a spoonful of soup gets a five-hundred-word sappy essay.” “Ethan is sitting in his dark study, scrolling through her feed and completely spiraling. I’m afraid the baby won't be enough to keep him here.” I frowned, threw off my blanket, and marched down the hallway, knocking loudly on his study door. After a long pause, the door swung open. Ethan stood there, his face pale and eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "I have terrible morning sickness," I announced, keeping my expression perfectly serious. "My stomach is burning, and I'm starving. Go make me something to eat." Ethan blinked, looking entirely lost. "I... I don't know how to cook." "Then look up a video tutorial," I said, crossing my arms. "The chef and nannies are asleep, and it’s dangerous for a pregnant woman to operate heavy appliances in the middle of the night. What if I slip and hurt the baby?" "I'll do it," he muttered, his shoulders slumping. He walked down to the kitchen, propped his phone against the spice rack, and clumsily attempted to boil a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I took one spoonful of the broth and immediately set the bowl down. "This tastes like dishwater." Ethan’s brow furrowed. "Is it really that bad?" He took a small sip from his spoon and immediately spat it into the sink. He looked at me, embarrassed. "Should I order takeout?" "We're in the suburbs, Ethan. By the time a delivery driver gets here, it’ll be time for my prenatal yoga class. Go make another bowl." I kept him in that kitchen for two hours, rejecting six consecutive attempts. By the seventh bowl, the broth was actually rich and flavorful. I ate two spoonfuls, patted my stomach, and stood up. "I'm full. I'm going back to sleep, and you should too." Ethan was so physically drained from standing over the stove and chopping vegetables that his exhaustion completely overrode his grief. He nodded numbly and stumbled toward his bedroom, forgetting his phone entirely. The comments in my room were practically vibrating with laughter. “Oh my god, she worked him so hard he didn't have time to be sad!” “When you're too busy cooking noodles, you don't have time to contemplate the meaning of life.” “This is brilliant. Keep making him work!” 3 The next morning, before the chef could even set the table, I marched over and knocked on Ethan's door again. He opened it, sporting a pair of massive dark circles under his eyes. "I can't stomach the chef's breakfast today," I declared. "I have a sudden craving for pumpkin oatmeal. Go look up a recipe and make it from scratch." He stood there, his brain clearly struggling to boot up. I stepped lightly on his slippered foot. "Hurry up. The baby is hungry." Ethan cleared his throat, sighed, and headed straight for the kitchen. Making oatmeal required constant stirring, forcing him to stand by the hot stove for forty minutes without a single moment to check his social media. Once the oatmeal was done, I ate a few spoonfuls to satisfy my hunger, then laid out my demands for the rest of the day. "For lunch, I want steamed sea bass, roasted herb chicken, and sweet and sour ribs. You have to make them yourself. Ask the chef to supervise you." Without waiting for his response, I turned and headed back to my room for a morning nap. When I woke up at noon, the dining table was set with the exact dishes I had requested. Under the chef's strict guidance, the food was actually quite good. From that day on, the kitchen became Ethan's domain. I refused to eat anything he didn't personally cook. If he tried to sneak a dish prepared by the chef, I would take one bite, pretend to gag, and claim that the baby possessed an incredibly sensitive palate that only recognized its father's cooking. Faced with the threat of my malnutrition, Ethan didn't dare slack off. Between managing the Hawthorne Group’s daily operations, learning gourmet recipes, and looking after my health, his schedule was packed to the second. He had absolutely no time to search for Madelyn's updates. One evening, after finishing dinner, I carefully packed a portion of the leftover chicken and placed it in the warming drawer. Ethan watched me, his brow raised. "Still hungry?" "No, this is for you," I said, looking at him. "You’ve been cooking all day and barely touched your own plate. You’ve had a terrible stomach since your startup days, and skipping meals is only going to trigger your ulcers. If you collapse from a stomach bleed, who's going to feed me and the baby?" Ethan froze, staring at the warm container. "I don't need—" "Eat it," I commanded, leaving no room for argument. "You look like a ghost walking around this house. I need my personal chef in prime condition." He didn't argue further. The next morning, when I checked the kitchen, the container was clean and sitting in the dishwasher. As the months passed, my belly began to swell. Ethan seemed fascinated by the physical reality of the pregnancy, his gaze constantly lingering on my stomach. By the fifth month, the baby began to kick. Seeing him stare at my belly with quiet awe during dinner, I smiled. "Want to feel?" "Can I?" he whispered, his voice hesitant. I took his hand and pressed his palm against the soft curve of my stomach. A second later, a distinct, gentle thump nudged his palm. Ethan’s eyes widened, a genuine, brilliant smile breaking across his face. He leaned down, pressing his ear against my belly, holding his breath as he listened to the faint, rapid heartbeat of our child. "Her heart... it's beating so fast," he whispered, looking up at me with bright, wonder-filled eyes. "Of course it is," I laughed, running my fingers through his hair. His attitude had shifted completely. He was no longer just fulfilling a duty; he was falling in love with the life we were creating. 4 In my sixth month of pregnancy, an uninvited guest arrived at the villa. A middle-aged woman with a loud, abrasive voice barged through the front doors, ignoring the security guards. The moment she saw Ethan, she pointed a crooked finger at his nose and began to shriek. "Well, look at you, Ethan Hawthorne! I slave away to raise you after your parents died, and the moment you make a few dollars, you lock yourself in this mansion and ignore your own flesh and blood! You ungrateful, heartless leach!" Ethan’s face drained of color, his hands trembling at his sides. The virtual comments immediately began to scroll across my vision. “It's Beatrice Miller, his biological aunt. She took him in after his parents' car accident.” “She abused him for years, and now she has the audacity to show up here demanding a handout? Disgusting!” “The truth is, she was only nice to him for the first two years because she wanted his parents' life insurance payout. Once she got pregnant with her own son, everything changed.” “They spent every cent of his inheritance on their own kid, ignored Ethan, starved him, and beat him whenever their son threw a tantrum.” Beatrice took a seat on the custom leather sofa, crossing her legs with a smug expression. "I raised you for ten years, Ethan. You owe me at least five million dollars." "My son is getting married next month, and you're going to buy him a brownstone in the city. And you’re going to give him an executive position at the Hawthorne Group, or I’ll go to every major news outlet and tell them exactly how the great Ethan Hawthorne treats the aunt who saved his life!" Ethan clenched his fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I could see him slipping back into the dark, helpless space of his childhood. I took a slow breath, walked down the stairs, and offered Beatrice a sweet, pleasant smile. "Five million? Of course, Aunt Beatrice. We can certainly discuss that."