He masked it well.
A part of me wanted to feel satisfaction.
He had put me through hell.
Humiliated me.
Manipulated me.
Imprisoned me — emotionally and physically.
A little physical suffering?
It should have felt deserved.
It should have felt fair.
But instead —
Watching him limp while carefully shielding our daughter from even the slightest jolt —
It did something dangerous.
It cracked the armor I had rebuilt around my heart.
We reached the master suite.
The double doors opened, revealing a room that had been completely transformed.
I froze.
The walls were painted that soft dove grey he had described downstairs — calming, clean, almost gentle.
Heavy silk drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling windows, filtering the sunlight into a warm glow.
Fresh white roses sat in a crystal vase on the dresser — my favorite.
My chest tightened.
He remembered.
The hardwood floor was softened by a plush rug in charcoal and cream.
Every step felt quieter.
More intimate.
In the corner — positioned carefully beside the king-sized bed — stood the nursery setup.
My breath caught.
The walnut Moses basket rested inside a low white fence made of turned spindles for safety.
The wood was polished to perfection.
Soft cream linens lined the basket.
It looked handmade.
