Ian realized a grave mistake had been made.

“To think you’d lie like that just for a kiss…!”

Laura raised her hand, gripping the parasol again.

“Laura, wait…”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

A flurry of blows rained down on Ian’s back. He hunched over and cried out.

“Laura, I’m sorry! I was wrong, darling!”

“Fool! Dimwit! Utterly shameless rogue!”

Thwack! Thwack!

The beating ceased. The parasol, delicate despite its beauty, had snapped after a few strikes.

Laura flung the broken parasol to the ground.

Ian, still crouched, looked up at her. Her face was drenched in tears.

She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.

“Liar! We’re sleeping apart!”

Laura spun around and dashed toward the manor.

Normally, Ian would have run after her to console her, but this time he couldn’t follow. He had never seen her so furious since their marriage.

It wasn’t as if he’d never upset his wife in the past year. Early in their honeymoon, his daily purchases of jewels and dresses had left Laura aghast at the bills. Unaware of her fear of horses, he’d gifted her a splendid black stallion, only for her to scream and flee. Some nights, he’d worn her out so much she fell ill.

For a romantic who’d never courted before marrying the woman he adored, such blunders were inevitable.

But this was different. When angry, Laura typically grew calmer. She chose gentle words to express her stance and resolved disputes with quiet appeals. Even bedridden with aching hips, she’d clasp Ian’s hand, begging him to limit their ardor to midnight since she wasn’t made of steel. To Ian, who owed her endless apologies.

Yet this Laura had struck him.

“She’s truly furious. Blast it, blast it!”

Ian belatedly considered her perspective. Laura had lived her life shackled by the weight of reputation. Already sensitive to others’ gazes, becoming the subject of scandalous gossip among neighbors would naturally breed resentment toward her husband.

“And I lied to her. For a mere kiss, I hurt her heart and made her feel guilty. To do this to my beloved angel. You wretched fool!”

He tore at his hair and slammed his head against the rubber tree he’d been leaning on.

After reddening his forehead with self-inflicted blows, he leaned back against the tree.

“Why do I keep testing Laura?”

He continually put her in awkward positions. Knowing she disapproved, he’d try to touch her in public or pursue her in broad daylight. No matter how kindly she admonished him, his restraint was fleeting.

They say seeking reassurance of love is a woman’s instinct. Yet Ian, a man, also craved confirmation of Laura’s affection.

When close to her, he felt she truly belonged to him. When she accepted him despite discomfort, he sensed her patient love. When she trembled in his arms, he knew she desired him too.

Laura, ever cautious with her emotions, showed love in ways that supported her husband’s life. Her love brought Ian comfort and strength, but its subtle nature stoked his frustration—a longing for her to openly express her heart.

“Do you want me too? Do you love me? How much? Enough to let me come this close? To demand this much? To forgive me even for this?”

In their intimacy, he found those answers. Though he knew she loved him more than life itself, and that his actions strained their bond, he couldn’t stop.

“She’s human too. If her patience wears thin…”

Ian desperately craved a cigar. One puff might ease this stifling weight. He instinctively searched his jacket pocket but found only mints.

“Blast it.”

He clenched his teeth and kicked a stray pebble.

Ian paced to calm himself, then gathered Laura’s discarded belongings: a handkerchief draped over a stump and the broken parasol on the ground. Though ruined, he couldn’t leave something she’d touched on a public path.

Brushing dirt from the parasol, he thought, “What now?”

First, he must appease Laura. That meant staying clear until her anger cooled. Quiet people needed space to calm down. Pestering them only risks alienation.

He knew this because he was quiet too. Ian despised those who, unable to bear conflict, begged frantically for forgiveness.

“I’ll wait until she’s ready to return to me. And, of course, sleep apart at night.”

Sighing, he retraced his steps, planning to head straight to his study to avoid her sight.

He passed fields rich with wild strawberries and paths bursting with flowers. The scenery that once sparked his imagination now seemed gray, as if dusted with ash.

All because his wife wasn’t by his side.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through a wooden window frame, divided into six squares. The warm, golden light fell in six neat slices, like butter cut with a heated knife.

Scratch. Scratch.

The sunlit study echoed with the sound of scribbling. Slow but steady, like a clock’s second hand, it blended with the elegant room, lined with leather-bound books and oak shelves.

At a grand oak desk, adorned with a golden table clock, ink bottles, a paper box, a letter tray, and several dictionaries, sat a woman. Her reddish-blonde hair, neatly tucked into a hairnet, tilted toward the desk as she moved her fountain pen tirelessly. Dressed in silk, she was Laura S. Dalton.

On her desk lay three stacks: to the left, a French book dense with text; in the center, manuscript paper; to the right, a French dictionary.

Eyes fixed on the left stack, she wrote English sentences on the manuscript. The lines, written without looking, were as straight as a disciplined regiment.

At times, her hand paused. She’d turn to the dictionary, scanning it carefully, then ponder before adding a word to complete a sentence.

She reread the paragraph, checking if the words suited the flow and nuance. Nodding slightly in satisfaction, she returned to the left stack. The scratching of her pen resumed.

It was a peaceful afternoon, like any other. Unless something urgent arose, Laura spent her afternoons translating. She enjoyed the work, as it suited her talents: steadiness, care, and precision. Laura was grateful to have found a way to use her skills.

Yet, strangely, her face seemed shadowed as she worked. She looked uncomfortable, as if troubled by swollen gums, or weary, as if sleepless from a toothache.

Finishing a page, Laura blew on the ink to dry it and glanced at the table clock. It was 3:25.

“Teatime soon.”

She tidied her manuscript in the paper box and placed a bookmark in the book before closing it, revealing its cover.

Rising, she massaged her shoulders and approached the window.

The rose garden lay below. Thanks to the gardeners’ care, white, yellow, and red roses bloomed proudly, like queens at a coronation.

Laura loved gazing at the garden after her work. The satisfaction of completed tasks, paired with the lavish joy of nurtured nature, always pleased her.

But today, her expression held no joy as she looked at the garden. She seemed lost in thought, her face still troubled, suggesting those thoughts were far from pleasant.

Knock, knock.

Laura, eyes fixed outside, called for the visitor to enter, assuming it was a maid with tea.

The door opened. Lively footsteps, too cheerful for a maid, entered the study.

“Auntie.”

Laura turned. Olivia Fairfax stood at the entrance.

The clouds lifted from Laura’s face, replaced by a radiant smile.

Olivia strode forward and kissed Laura’s cheek, embracing her warmly.

“I’m not disturbing your work, am I?”

“Of course not. It’s nearly teatime.”

Held by Olivia, Laura noticed her niece had grown taller. When they first met, Olivia barely reached her shoulder; now, she seemed five centimeters taller than Laura.

Olivia was fifteen now. Her skirt, once mid-calf, now covered her ankles, and her blonde hair was neatly pinned up, no longer braided or loose.

Her appearance had matured too. Her cheeks had slimmed, and her figure was developing feminine curves. The charming girl of childhood was becoming a beautiful woman, like a yellow rose blooming in the garden.

“My little lady has become a true lady.”