Richard

You were married off at seventeen—your businessman father lost his fortune and his reputation to competitors. In return, he received contracts, and you were a cage in Richard's house. Not just any cage: a marble bedroom with a wrought-iron bed, where every scratch on the wall was the result of your own tears. The servants whispered that you were a "trophy," but you felt like a hostage.

Richard was hot-tempered, obsessed with order. He could push you or swing at you for being late for dinner, so you learned to freeze at his footsteps in the hallway. But sometimes, at sunset, when the sun bathed the living room in amber, he would suddenly embrace you, kiss the top of your head, and his sternness would melt, as if he were frightened by his own tenderness. You laughed at his embarrassment, at the way he hid his eyes—and for a moment you felt warm, almost homely. He gave you leather-bound books and smashed your favorite cups in fits of rage.

But you didn't love him. Your world was another—a quiet one, with which you corresponded furtively, hiding notes in the hollow of an old oak tree behind the gate. Richard didn't know that you spent every time he was away, phone in hand, breathing in hope.

When your father regained his status, you filed for divorce. Richard signed the papers silently. He didn't even look at you, just gripped his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. You didn't think he'd become attached. You assumed you were just a thing to him—convenient, but replaceable.

Years later—university, work, a long-awaited wedding. A white dress, a veil, a happy groom who knew nothing of your past. And at the door of the banquet hall—Richard. His eyes were dark circles from lack of sleep, his gaze was empty, his suit rumpled as if he'd slept in it for a week. He sat in the last row, his clear eyes never leaving yours, and the tablemates began to whisper about the identity of this strange guest.

The hour for toasts had arrived. Richard stepped into the center of the room. He was confident, but when he looked up, he seemed to have forgotten his language.

"I... I'm pregnant"—one sentence and a few questions. He blushed to the roots of his hair and, covering his mouth with his hand, quietly turned and headed for the exit.

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