13

Betty’s POV

Jayson has always been the kind of man who acted as though nothing in the world could ever truly bother him.

He moved through life with a quiet, almost indifferent confidence that used to frustrate me more than I ever admitted out loud.

He could walk past me in the hallway of our Paris mansion without a single word, spend entire evenings buried in work documents or long conference calls, and give me that same cool, unreadable look whenever I tried to catch his attention.

That was the version of him I had grown used to—the distant husband, the man who fulfilled his marital duties with careful politeness but never with warmth.

That was the man I married under a contract neither of us had chosen freely.

I don't know what exactly made me love him even despite this cold nonchalant attitude of his, like my heart still chose him.

He always gives me the I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOU attitude.

But ever since I returned from the hospital, his nonchalantness has changed.

He was still Jayson—still composed, still controlled—but somehow he was also different.

He's always worried about me, checking whether I have eaten, reminding me, sometimes twice in the same hour, to take my medication.

He would not let me lift anything heavier than a glass of water, and whenever I tried to help around the house he would appear at my side within seconds and tell me, firmly but gently, to sit down.

When we first got married, I didn't want maids around, though we employed one but she stole from us so no maids again.

Yeah!

Sometimes I catch him staring at me when he thought I was not looking, his gaze lingering on my face or my still-flat stomach with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.

I did not know what to make of it.

Maybe it was only because of the baby.

Maybe becoming a father had finally forced him to acknowledge that he had responsibilities beyond contracts and boardrooms.

Or maybe I was simply imagining deeper meaning because I wanted those small acts of care to mean more than they actually did.

I learned long ago that hope was a dangerous thing in a marriage like ours, because there was a time he rushed from his company when he heard I was shivering so badly.

He told me: “Don't mistake this for love at all, and don't love me at all because I'll never love you!” Oh his cold voice made me cry that day.

To maintain my composure, I had to reply to him : “Don't care about me too, you look ugly when you care about me.”

Bad memories of the past.

That evening I woke from a short nap feeling unusually thirsty.

The soft blue light of late afternoon had already begun to fade behind the tall windows of our bedroom.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and checked the time.

Seven o’clock pm.

Jayson was not home yet, he could have probably been caught up in another endless meeting; his work has always been demanding, and I have stopped being surprised by his late returns.

I got down from the bed, careful not to move too quickly, and walked downstairs.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

I was not particularly hungry, but the sight of a carton of milk reminded me how dry my throat was.

I poured myself a glass and stood at the counter, one hand resting lightly over my belly without thinking.

There was still barely anything to see, only the faintest suggestion of change, yet knowing that a tiny life was growing inside me made my heart flutter in a way nothing else ever had.

My baby. Jayson’s baby.

I smiled and brought the glass to my lips.

I was so thirsty that I drank too quickly. Almost immediately I began to cough—once, twice, then again more violently.

The milk had gone down the wrong way. I set the glass on the counter and tried to catch my breath, but the coughing only grew worse.

My eyes became watery and I reached toward the refrigerator again, intending to grab a bottle of water, when a hand suddenly caught my arm.

I turned around so quickly that I nearly stumbled.

Jayson stood in front of me, brows drawn together, still wearing the dark suit he had left in that morning.

Without a word he grabbed a bottle of water from the counter and pressed it into my hands.

“Drink.” I took it immediately.

He placed one hand on my back, rubbing slow, steady circles while I drank until the coughing finally relieved me and my breathing settled.

I lowered the bottle and managed a small smile.

“I’m okay, thank you.”

He did not look convinced. “You nearly choked, did you know that?”

“I just drank too fast.” I bit my lips.

“And why did you drink it that fast?”

I pouted my lips. “I was thirsty, don't even scold me.”

He sighed and shook his head, the gesture equal parts exasperation and something softer.

“I won’t be around every second to watch you. Are you a child? Don’t you know you have to drink slowly?”

Despite the scolding, I could not stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

He's so cute, even when he's scolding me, damn!

And there was something strangely comforting about being worried over by him, like something I had almost forgotten how much I needed.

“I was really thirsty,” I explained, trying not to laugh. “I just wanted to quench my thirst.”

He stared at me for a few seconds, then shook his head again, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Come on.” He took my hand and gently pulled me out of the kitchen.

His fingers were warm against mine, and I let myself be led without resistance.

“Where are we going?” I asked him and rubbed my lips together.

“Back to the living room.”

The moment we stepped into the spacious living room, something on the center table caught my attention and made me stop walking entirely.

A bouquet of deep red roses sat beautifully arranged among delicate white flowers, the stems wrapped in soft tissue and ribbon.

The color was rich, almost velvety under the warm lamplight.

My eyes widened.

I looked at Jayson. “What’s that?”

“It’s for you.”

I stared at him. “For me?”

He nodded once. “Do you like them?”

A huge smile spread across my face before I could stop it. “You really got me flowers?”

He gave a small shrug, as though buying roses for his wife was the most ordinary thing in the world.

I rushed toward the bouquet and carefully lifted it. The sweet, fresh scent filled my senses immediately.

I brought the flowers closer to my face and inhaled deeply, closing my eyes for a moment.

I could not remember the last time anyone had bought me flowers simply because they wanted to make me happy.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Then, before I could overthink it, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. It was only a brief hug, awkward and fleeting, yet when I pulled away my cheeks were burning.

“Thank you so much, Jay.”

He looked at me, our eyes locked.

“Betty.” he called me softly.

“Hmm?”

“I want to say something.”

I held the bouquet against my chest, suddenly nervous.

“What is it?”

He was silent for a moment, then lowered his gaze to the floor before meeting my eyes again.

“I’m sorry.”

My smile slowly disappeared. “Sorry?”

“For the way I treated you from the beginning.”

I did not know what to say. The words hung between us like something fragile and unexpected.

Jayson continued, his voice low and steady. “Despite everything, you were always kind to me. You never used the fact that I was distant against me. You never embarrassed me in front of anyone. You never made scenes or demanded things I wasn’t ready to give. You just stayed with me, and supported me like a good wife.”

My heart began beating faster.

Was Jayson really apologizing to me?

Oh my God, if this is a dream, I don't want to wake up.

The same man who had barely acknowledged my feelings when we first got married? The man who had treated our marriage like a business arrangement he was obligated to honor but never intended to enjoy?