At the traffic light, Oliver unusually reached out to me.
"Later, I'll go home to get some documents. Want an egg tart for breakfast?"
So many times in the past, after leaving the police station, he would ask me if I wanted an egg tart.
The first time, I cried through it. But today... I felt sick of it.
I didn't reply. Instead, I used the last few seconds of the red light to answer my late mother-in-law's estate lawyer.
"Attorney Palmer, thank you for the reminder. I haven't forgotten my agreement with Mom. I'll be there in seven days to sign the papers on time."
The wind hit me on the way home, and by the time I arrived, I felt light-headed.
Sitting half-awake on the living room sofa, my fingers, still scarred from healing, burned like fire. The pain cut through me.
Oliver came in with two boxes of egg tarts and froze at the sight of me tracing the jagged scars on my fingers.
In the dim light of the living room, I couldn't read his expression.
"Now that you know it hurts, stop making a fuss."
A fuss?
I felt momentarily lost.
Of course, in Oliver's eyes... crying until I collapsed after discovering the man I loved with my widowed sister-in-law at mother's memorial was a fuss.
Showing up at his office, four months pregnant, hoping to celebrate his birthday together only to find Czarina in his arms eating cake—and slapping her—was a fuss.
Having a miscarriage and hemorrhaging while he traveled abroad with Czarina to watch the sunset, ignoring my ninety-nine desperate phone calls... that was a fuss too.
I realized, after all these years of marriage, I was always the one apologizing.
So, without thinking, I pushed the box of tarts aside and said, "I'm... sorry."
Oliver sat down beside me, opened the box, and lifted an egg tart to my lips.
"Alright, Lydia. Just hold on a little longer. Once Czarina gets pregnant, has something to worry about, I'll belong only to you."
The cloying sweetness of the tart hit my nose, triggering a wave of nausea.
I bolted to the bathroom, retching violently.
I faintly heard him muttering behind me, "Tsk. So delicate."
I wiped the corners of my eyes with my hands, letting the cold water wash away my tears.
The eighteen-year-old Lydia loved the egg tarts Oliver waited in line to buy. But the twenty-eight-year-old Lydia... hated the consolation Oliver bought just to appease the household's shrews.
I staggered to my feet, bracing against the doorframe. Then a sound came from the corner.
The housekeeper's face went pale at the sight of the shattered photo frame.
"Madam... I'm so sorry..."
Even Oliver, who rarely cared about the house, knew how much I had treasured that photo of us—like it was my life itself.
Seeing this, he uncharacteristically snapped at the servant. "If you can't handle something so small, don't bother coming to work."
"It's fine. Since it's broken, just throw it away after cleaning up," I said at the same time he did.
Oliver froze. Then he saw me look up, forcing a smile.
"Throw it away. You always said it was an eyesore anyway."
For some reason, he looked away for the first time.
"Alright. I always thought the wedding dress that day wasn't great. We can take new photos next time."
He didn't know there wouldn't be a next time.
I reminded him kindly. "Oliver... Mom and I have an agreement. Our marriage contract is about to—"
I didn't say the words expired soon.
Oliver picked up the phone. Three seconds later, his eyes lit up with joy.
"You're pregnant?!"
Veins bulged on his hand as he gripped the phone, radiating unrestrained, genuine happiness.
After hanging up, he finally asked me, "What did you just say about my mother?"
I shook my head. "Let's wait for Attorney Palmer to come next time."
