That evening, I sat on the couch, holding Skyla's photo, my eyes fixed on the hallway. It wasn’t until midnight that the door finally creaked open, and Princeton Foster stepped in, switching on the light. Our eyes met, and his gaze fell on the photo in my hands. His voice was cold and sharp as he remarked, "You didn’t take care of her when you had the chance. Why start mourning now?"

"How could you let such a small child wander off alone?" His words hit me hard, a lump forming in my throat. While our daughter was being laid to rest, Princeton had been busy picking up his muse, Zuri Morgan, from the airport, not returning until late that night. I wanted to confront him, but the words stuck in my throat, afraid to come out.

After a long pause, I looked down, my voice rasping, "It’s my fault. I failed Skyla." I had been deluded by three years of marriage, thinking I could provide Skyla with a loving home. Sensing the harshness of his earlier words, he softened his tone slightly.

"If you still want a child, we can always adopt another one." My grip on the photo tightened. How could he say that? To him, Skyla seemed like a toy, something that could be easily replaced. Had he forgotten how sweetly she called him dad? His heart was so cold; neither I nor Skyla could ever warm it.

I had been too hopeful, too eager to create a happy family with him. Skyla and I were both children abandoned by our families. She was left because of her heart condition, left at the orphanage’s doorstep. In her, I saw a reflection of my own childhood, and that's why I adopted her.

I wanted to protect her forever, to let her grow up without worries. But reality struck me hard. A three-year-old, hit by a car and thrown over thirty feet, her body bloodied, like a kite with its string cut, forever out of reach.

When I didn’t reply, he sat beside me, beginning to say something but then stopping, only to eventually get up and leave. His coat, left on the sofa, carried the familiar scent of coffee and cedar—Zuri Morgan’s favorite fragrance.

The next day, as I was getting his coat ready for dry cleaning, I stumbled upon a phone in the pocket that wasn’t Princeton's. Just then, it rang.

I frowned and picked it up. A woman's voice on the other end said, "Is this Tiana? It's Zuri."

I felt my grip on the phone tighten instinctively.

She continued, "Don't misunderstand, I accidentally left my phone in Princeton's pocket yesterday."

"Could you do me a favor and drop the phone off at Princeton's office? Thanks."

She quickly rattled off a few sentences without giving me a chance to reply. While she seemed to be apologizing, every word reminded me of the special connection she had with Princeton.

When I got to the office, I saw through the glass wall that Zuri was helping Princeton adjust his tie. They stood close, with Zuri looking at Princeton tenderly, as if doting on him.

I had once wanted to help him with his tie too. What did he say back then? He said that a simple task like that was something the staff could handle.

Yet now, he was clearly enjoying it. It wasn't that he didn't like the gesture; he just didn't want it from me.

I didn’t want to stay and endure any more humiliation. I just wanted to get away.

But Zuri called out, "Oh, Tiana, you’re here. Thanks for going out of your way."

I handed over the phone, trying to act nonchalant, "No problem at all."

As I turned to leave, the feelings of bitterness and sadness only grew stronger with each step.

On the way home, my mind was flooded with images of them lost in conversation, wrapped up in their own universe. It was becoming painfully obvious to me that Princeton and I were like two parallel lines destined never to meet.

When I got back that evening, he presented me with a gift—an extravagant sports car that cost more than a house. The car was sleek and incredibly pricey, yet I never had any interest in cars. He never really knew what I liked. I understood he was consumed by guilt, and I chose not to confront him about it. I swallowed the lump in my throat, pretending to be thrilled, smiling as I took the car keys. "Let's have dinner," I suggested.

Seeing the dinner table set with dishes he loved seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders. Later that night, after he had showered, he lay down beside me, inching closer until he pulled me into a hug. In the past, this would have made me happy, but now all I felt was a hollow chill.

His heavy breathing against my back kept me wide awake. Only after he slipped into sleep did I open my eyes. I turned to look at him as he slept, observing him for a long time. I couldn't stop wondering if he ever truly loved me. Had he ever really loved me?

Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my head, snapping me back to reality—I was dying. It's terrifying how obsessions can cling to us, even as life is slipping away, leaving me to ponder, even now, whether he loved me or not.