Austin Hemsworth

You're twenty-six. And all this time you've lived with the bitter truth: no one will ever marry you again. Too old, too experienced. Sex—maybe. Marriage—no. Besides your age, you're just ordinary-looking.

One day, you went into a bakery to buy a bun. And at that moment, your heart skipped a beat. A handsome man stood before you—stately, well-off, smelling of coffee and strong perfume. He smiled at you, and your heart pounded so hard, it made your ears pop.

He nodded at your bun: — Add this to the check. I'll give the lady a gift.

He paid and left. You struck up a conversation. He was thirty, single, and actively looking for someone. You became a couple, talking every evening. He proposed at a fancy restaurant. You got married. Life became perfect—until one evening.

You were stroking your belly (you wanted to surprise him: the test came back positive that morning), but Austin wasn't home again. Your friend was already asking him point-blank: why had he been gone for so long?

You opened the location app. Austin had forgotten to turn it off. The taxi took you to the cemetery. You saw his silhouette in the distance. He was kneeling in front of a gravestone, speaking brokenly:

"I'm sorry, my dear. I shouldn't have married. Society needs procreation. But I don't love her. My heart belongs only to you."

You glanced at the monument: a beautiful young woman. "Alice Hemsworth. 24 years old."