Mistakenly Devoted to Fleeting Years, Memories Hard to Let Go

"Childish squabbles…"

He had never known the icy sting of cold water over his head in the dead of winter, the searing burn of a cigarette pressed to his skin, or the desperation of swallowing sleeping pills just to escape the night.

What gave him the right to forgive on her behalf?

Elliot frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but Millie suddenly snatched the glass from his hand and downed it swiftly.

The wine spilled, dribbling down her delicate neck and she coughed violently, her eyes glossing over with unshed tears.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Elliot’s chest tightened painfully, a flicker of guilt gnawing at him.

Before he could react, Millie collapsed into his arms, her breathing shallow and skin flushed.

Someone nearby whispered, "Is she allergic to alcohol?"

The words snapped him back to reality. "Damn it," he muttered, grabbing her and rushing toward the garage.

What the hell was wrong with him? How could he have forgotten?

When Millie finally stirred again, an IV line was running into her arm.

Elliot sat at her side, watching her intently, his red-rimmed eyes betraying the emotions he tried to suppress.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"There was no need," she replied, turning her face away.

Elliot grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.

"You’re pregnant. I’m the father. And you think it’s unnecessary to tell me?"

Millie stayed silent, her expression unreadable, but Elliot suddenly buried his face in the crook of her neck. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.

"I’m going to be a father," he murmured repeatedly, his voice trembling with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Warm tears fell against her shoulder, leaving her frozen in place.

Were they tears of joy—or something else entirely?

After three long years of marriage, she had never conceived. The doctors had told her she suffered from polycystic ovary syndrome, making it nearly impossible to get pregnant.

She had made peace with the idea of never having children, yet now, against all odds, a tiny spark of life had taken root.

Her hand instinctively rested on her flat belly, emotions churning like a storm within her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Hilary glaring at her through the small window of the hospital door, her expression dark and piercing.

Millie reclined against the pillows, her face a picture of calm, but her lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.

For the next few days, Elliot barely left her side, eagerly trying to win her over with his cooking.

His culinary skills were remarkable, surpassing even the finest restaurants she’d known.

But she could count the times she’d tasted his cooking on one hand.

Once, during her senior year of college, she had been drowning in the demands of her thesis, internships and tutoring jobs, often skipping meals entirely. One night, she woke doubled over in pain from a stomachache. That was the first time Elliot cooked for her—a simple plate of fried rice.

It had been the most satisfying meal of her life.

She had always wondered how someone raised in luxury, surrounded by chefs and maids, had learned to cook so well. Later, she found out.

Hilary was a notoriously picky eater. During her years abroad, Elliot took six months of cooking lessons just so he could fly out and prepare her favorite hometown dishes every month.

Since then, whenever Millie was too swamped to cook, she’d jokingly ask Elliot to cook for her again. But he always refused. If her persistence annoyed him, he would order takeout instead.

The reason?

Hilary’s jealousy. She had forbidden him from cooking for anyone else. Like so much else, his skills in the kitchen had been reserved exclusively for her.

Millie glanced at the table brimming with dishes made to suit her tastes, but the sight only deepened her unease. Taking a few bites out of obligation, she excused herself and walked to the bathroom.

Once inside, her stomach rebelled. She gripped the edge of the sink; her body wracked with spasms until the contents of her meal were forced up. A sharp pain clawed at her abdomen and an acrid metallic taste filled her mouth.

She leaned over the sink as crimson blood spilled past her lips, vivid against the white porcelain. Her hands trembled as she turned on the faucet, watching the water sweep away every trace of her struggle, leaving the sink pristine once more.

Outside, Elliot banged on the door with urgency. The sound echoed like a heartbeat, each knock filled with tension.

The door opened abruptly and before Millie could react, Elliot pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, his embrace both firm and desperate.