The 10th Year of Unrequited Love

[Bea, it's been five years. How are you? I want to see you.]

The sender was Beatrice Jennings' first love, Lucius Jones.

Beatrice's fingertips hovered over the screen, suspended for a full thirty seconds as a suffocating tightness rose in her chest. Five years could change many things—like the fact she was married now.

She typed out [I'm married,] but couldn't bring herself to send it. After long hesitation, she deleted that sentence and simply replied: [Okay.]

Her marriage was a family arrangement, devoid of love from the beginning until now.

She remembered she still had many gifts from Lucius she never returned—the Cartier bracelet, the model he'd made by hand, and even the love letters they'd exchanged, all still packed in that box from graduation.

Everything had happened so quickly, just like five years ago when he'd taken the ten-million-dollar check from the Stuart family and left her without looking back, abandoning all their promises to each other. So hastily that she never had time to dispose of these gifts. Those sweet conversations still remained in her phone.

As Beatrice sank into memories, strong arms suddenly encircled her waist, a warm chest pressing against her back. The crisp cedar scent of her husband enveloped her instantly.

Beatrice jolted, immediately darkening her screen and clutching the phone in her palm.

"Weren't you on a business trip?" she asked nervously. "When did you get back?"

How long had he been home? Could he have seen...?

The man behind her didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rested his chin in the crook of her neck, his scorching breath fanning against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

"What has you so captivated?" he murmured.

Beatrice's heart skipped a beat. "N-nothing. Just handling some work emails."

She didn't dare turn around, afraid he might read something in her expression.

This man was her husband, Frederick Stuart. The same man who had paid ten million dollars to end her relationship with Lucius.

Frederick's arms tightened around her, his burning kisses trailing behind her ear, making her body go weak. His lips traveled downward, unusually demanding.

He was far more passionate than usual—so passionate she could barely handle it.

Beatrice's rigid body shifted from melting to discomfort as sudden understanding dawned. Counting the days, today was her ovulation period.

So that explained it. No wonder he'd cut his business trip short and rushed home. No wonder he desired her so intensely today.

It was time she gave him a child, Beatrice thought with resignation.

Five years ago, when the Jennings family business failed and her adoptive parents tried to marry her off to a balding CEO in his fifties for financial gain, Frederick had stepped in to save her.

He'd stood in the crowd, dignified and detached, simply stating, "I'll marry her."

During their marriage registration, she'd gathered the courage to ask, "Why me?"

Frederick had lit a cigarette, smoke blurring his handsome features. "My grandmother is getting old and wants grandchildren," he'd said. "We've known each other long enough. You're suitable to be my wife and the mother."

From the beginning, he'd only wanted a child. And she, Beatrice, was just an expensive, suitable vessel he'd purchased to bear his children. His "passion" toward her was merely to fulfill his grandmother's wish for grandchildren.

...

Afterward, Beatrice was drenched in sweat, as if she'd been pulled from water. She silently slipped out of bed, picked up her nightgown from the floor, and prepared to go to the guest room.

This was their unspoken rule. On their wedding night, he hadn't come home. She'd waited alone in their massive bridal chamber from dusk till dawn.

She figured perhaps this rushed marriage was still too forced for him.

To avoid his discomfort and preserve what little dignity she had left, since then, except when staying at the Stuart Manor, she would leave for the adjacent room after they made love.

Frederick had shown her kindness, offering her the position of his wife when she was at her lowest, saving her from being sold off like merchandise. She was grateful and naturally didn't want to make things difficult for him.

But after just two steps, her knees suddenly gave way, and she pitched forward uncontrollably.

The expected pain never came. Frederick's powerful arms caught her waist just in time, lifting her up. Beatrice found herself tossed back onto the soft bed.

Frederick's tall figure covered her, trapping her firmly beneath him. "Beatrice," his voice was cold and deep, "are you that desperate to avoid sharing a bed with me?"

In the darkness, Beatrice's right ear buzzed with a deafening silence.

This was her eternal secret. As a child, her adoptive father had struck her while drunk, leaving her right ear permanently damaged.

She hadn't clearly heard Frederick's angry question, only sensing his displeasure from his icy demeanor.

Was he angry? Had her performance been inadequate, leaving him unsatisfied? Or did he think she'd pretended to stumble, wanting to stay?

In an instant, anxiety and unease overwhelmed her. She was the wife he'd paid for, meant to please him in everything, yet she constantly angered him.

Beatrice tilted her head up, using the faint moonlight from the window to make out the shadowy figure above her.

She reached out, carefully touching his arm, her voice small and placating, "Are you mad?"

Frederick's body visibly stiffened.

Thinking her conciliatory approach was working, she softened her voice further. "I'm sorry. Please don't be angry."

She didn't realize that what she thought was appeasement was actually pouring gasoline on Frederick's fire. What he wanted had never been her apologies and submission.

Frederick's fingers clenched suddenly as he leaned down, his hot breath washing over her face, yet he remained silent.

After what seemed like forever, just when Beatrice thought they might fall asleep this way, Frederick rolled off her, lying beside her instead.

He turned his back to her, presenting only a cold, rigid silhouette. "Go to sleep."

The brief words, deep and frigid, contained not a trace of warmth.

Beatrice's heart sank to the pit of her stomach. He was truly furious. She could feel the chill radiating from him, causing her to curl up on her side of the bed, maintaining a significant distance between them.

After she'd drifted into uneasy sleep, her phone lit up with an address.

Beatrice only saw the address the next morning. She made her way downstairs distractedly to find Frederick already seated at the dining table. He wore an impeccable tailored suit, reading the financial paper, his emotions unreadable behind gold-rimmed glasses.

As if the out-of-control, angry Frederick from last night had been merely a dream.

They ate quietly as usual. Frederick took a call and left without Beatrice asking where he was going or when he'd return.

Not interfering in his private life was another condition of their arranged marriage. For years, she'd strictly followed the rules as his wife.

But this time, she wouldn't be able to honor the terms of their contract.