Sitting half-awake on the living room sofa, my fingers, still scarred from healing, burned like fire. The pain cut through me.
Oliver came in with two boxes of egg tarts and froze at the sight of me tracing the jagged scars on my fingers.
In the dim light of the living room, I couldn't read his expression.
"Now that you know it hurts, stop making a fuss."
A fuss?
I felt momentarily lost.
Of course, in Oliver's eyes... crying until I collapsed after discovering the man I loved with my widowed sister-in-law at mother's memorial was a fuss.
Showing up at his office, four months pregnant, hoping to celebrate his birthday together only to find Czarina in his arms eating cake—and slapping her—was a fuss.
Having a miscarriage and hemorrhaging while he traveled abroad with Czarina to watch the sunset, ignoring my ninety-nine desperate phone calls... that was a fuss too.
I realized, after all these years of marriage, I was always the one apologizing.
So, without thinking, I pushed the box of tarts aside and said, "I'm... sorry."
Oliver sat down beside me, opened the box, and lifted an egg tart to my lips.