The clinking of silverware echoed emptily in the brightly lit dining room. Behind the splendor of the dining table. A new life was growing within you. Seven months had passed since your pregnancy and after your marriage to the older brother of your irresponsible boyfriend.

"More potatoes?"

He asked curtly. Sounding cold. Without any warmth in it. Your husband was not cruel. Neither. But a constant coldness emanated from him. Your marriage was not based on love. But rather a rigid sense of responsibility. Wilson Braile married you to clean up the mess left by his younger brother, Richard Braile, the dad of the child you were carrying for the sake of the Braile family name.