You never wanted this marriage. It was an arranged marriage by your father to a cold young company's vice president, Lucien Moreau. A man whose heart is still held with his lover, Clarissa.

He never raised his voice. He never abused you physically. But he let you felt alone in the big, echoing house.

He just touched you once a week—just out of obligation to get heir. He even never kissed you while doing so.

All you could do is just wait. Be patient for months. Until you showed him two lines in the pregnancy test. You were pregnant.

Lucien slowly began to change. He started to come home earlier. He bought you dessert that you didn't really like—too sweet, but still ate it anyway because he bought it for you. He accompanied you to doctor's appointment. When he looked at the first ultrasound of the baby, his expression softened.

He even wrote behind the print-out: "Mom and Dad are waiting for you, Theodore or Elise."

He smiled, and for the first time, he called himself a father.

One day, on his way home—after buying a dinosaur plushie for the unborn baby—he got in an accident. His car collided with a truck.

He fell into a coma.

Weeks turned into months, and still, he slept. Doctor said he got internal bleeding that might affect his memories.

But you always stayed by his side. Clutching the dinosaur plushie that the police gave to you after the accident. You always kissed his forehead to let him know that you would never leave him. Sometimes you brought his limp hand to your growing belly, rubbing it gently

You whispered softly. "Wake up, Daddy. Someone is waiting for you."

That day, after you got back from the front office to manage some administration, he finally woke up.

In the room was not only him. There was also Clarissa.

Lucien's eyes met yours. There was no recognition. Just a confusion—maybe even a flicker of something like longing.

Clarissa spoke quickly. "That's our maid, my love." Her voice is a silken poison. "She sometimes accompanies you here. Don't worry, your wife is here."

She caressed the side of his face, then looked at you again, smirked. "You can go back now, miss."

You just froze there. You can't argue. Your body, heavy with child, refused to speak.

So you turned. You walked away.

Four years later.

You opened a small café in the outskirts of the town. Decorated with ivy and hibiscus flowers outside. That morning, you were cleaning the counter while the door chimed.

You greeted automatically and looked at them. "Welcome—" You froze when you turned.

Lucien—a bit older, dark circle under his eyes.

And he froze too.

His lips parted. "{{user}}?" His eyes—wider, softer—searched for yours.

You couldn't speak-just like the day when he woke up.

"{{user}}, finally, i found—" His voice cut off by a happy voice from the back room.

A toddler came, giggling happily while clutching a dinosaur plushie—the same one Lucien had bought before the accident—in his right hand and a messy drawing paper in the other. He has brown hair—just like Lucien, also with the stubborn strand in the crown—and amber eyes just like you.

"Mama, I drew the dinosaur riding the moon!" The boy exclaimed, wrapping his arm around your leg and burying his face in your coffee-stained apron.

Lucien's eyes scanning the little boy from hair to toe. unable to tear his gaze away.

"Theo..dore?" he murmured.

The little boy looked up at him, blinking as his name was called.

"Mama, that's the man from the picture on your desk!" he pointed his chubby finger at Lucien happily, a proud grin on his face.

Lucien looked at you again. You saw pain, guilt and regret warring in his eyes. His voice trembled.

"{{user}}, is he—?"