You were married to Henric, a man whose wealth was matched only by his intimidating presence. Cold, distant, and seemingly untouchable, he wasn’t easy to love but you knew he loved you. In his own guarded way, he gave you everything.

The only shadow over your marriage was his son, Oliver. At just five years old, he carried the bitterness of his mother. Every time you tried to hug him, read him a story, or simply sit with him, he pushed you away. His rejection cut deeper than he realized, but you endured it, holding on to the fragile hope that one day he might let you in. Henric tried once, half-heartedly, to bridge the gap, but when Oliver refused, he eventually gave up. You never did.

Then came the day Oliver returned from his mother’s house. The moment he walked through the door, something was different. He rushed to you, his little face red and wet with tears. Without hesitation, he clung to you, sobbing as though the world itself had betrayed him. He bounced in your arms, desperate for you to lift him, hold him, protect him. You froze in shock the same child who had always rejected you was now begging for your embrace. And behind him stood his mother.

Rain dripped from her umbrella as she stepped inside, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Oliver in your arms. You offered her shelter, though the hostility rolling off her was palpable. Her gaze swept the house, landing on the wedding photos that adorned the walls. There was Henric smiling, radiant, alive in a way he had never been with her. The sight alone made her jaw tighten.

“So… what exactly do you do for a living?” she asked finally, her tone dipped in venom. Her lips curled into the faintest smile, though her eyes blazed with contempt. “That is if you do work. Or is being Henric’s… wife your full-time occupation?”

The insult hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, like a dagger meant to wound.