I was in my art gallery, finalizing preparations for an upcoming charity auction, when my husband, Brady Fitzpatrick, called.

"There's a problem with the security system at Fiona's place. Go handle it. She's a widow, she can't deal with this kind of situation."

I put down my paintbrush. As the lady of the Fitzpatrick house, it was my duty to handle such things. I drove to Fiona's mansion, where I calmed the frightened servants and managed the security breach.

I dragged myself home, exhausted and spoiling for a fight. Through the half-open study door, I saw him. He was showing Fiona the tattoo on his wrist.

It was the rose I had designed to commemorate our daughter, Rosalie. And now, etched beside it, was the letter "F." For Fiona.

I stared at the defiled ink, my blood running cold. I shoved the door open, my voice cutting through their quiet moment.

"Brady, we're done."

He looked at me, disbelief twisting into a cold sneer. "You're tearing this family apart over a little ink?"

"Yes," I said. "I am."

————————

1

My words hung in the dead silence of the study.

Brady's face darkened. "Alyssa, what is this madness?"

He strode toward me, reaching to pull me into a forceful embrace, but I sidestepped his grasp.

His hand froze in mid-air, and anger flashed in his eyes at my defiance. "I know you miss Rosalie, but she's gone. It's time for us to move on."

He lowered his voice, glancing toward an awkward Fiona Gallagher, who lingered by the door.

"You know Fiona's situation. It's just a tattoo. Don't bring shame on the Fitzpatrick name in front of an outsider."

Fiona quickly interjected, playing the peacemaker. Her eyes were rimmed with red as she looked at me apologetically.

"Alyssa, I'm so sorry. I didn't know this tattoo was so important to you. Brady just wanted to… please don't blame him. I'll ask him to have it removed."

"No need," Brady cut in, pulling her behind him protectively. "Alyssa's just being dramatic. She'll get over it."

Then he turned to me, his brow furrowed. "Go to the cellar and bring up that bottle of Petrus. Fiona and Maeve haven't had dinner yet."

I didn't move. My gaze was fixed on the ugly letter etched into his wrist.

To him, this was nothing. A bit of ink to please his lover. He couldn't understand, and couldn't be bothered to, what that rose meant to me.

I felt a bone-deep chill as I forced myself to speak. "I'm initiating a family arbitration."

Brady's patience finally snapped. "Alyssa O'Connell, haven't you made enough of a scene? You're going to destroy this family over a tattoo? Do you think if Rosalie were here, she'd want to see you this weak?"

"It's not just a tattoo." I fought back tears, staring into his eyes, desperate to make him understand. "It was Rosalie's. I designed it for her myself."

"I know it was Rosalie's!" Brady's voice rose. "But she's not here anymore! What's the point of hoarding all these mementos? You lock yourself in that art studio all day, turning it into a shrine. For what?"

"I added that letter to force you to wake up and stop wallowing! I did it for your own good!"

My throat tightened, the words strangled by a sharp pain blooming in my chest. "Brady, you never asked."

He spun on me, glaring. "Ask for your permission? Would you have agreed? You'd enshrine everything Rosalie ever touched and live like a ghost! I can't just stand by and watch my wife waste away!"

His words were bullets, each one striking my heart with brutal precision.

I had kept everything my daughter Rosalie left behind. Her drawings, her little dresses, the fairy tale books she'd read—I had sealed them all away in the attic.

But I couldn't let go of this design.

On countless sleepless nights, I would trace the outline of that rose on my own wrist, as if it were the only connection I had left with her. It was the only way I could endure the soul-crushing sorrow.

It was my pain, but it was also my solace.

Brady didn't understand, and he never tried to. To him, I was just sick, a problem that needed a forcible cure.

Fiona quickly took her daughter Maeve Gallagher's hand. "Brady, we should go. I don't want to cause any more trouble between you two."

"Don't mind her, Fiona," Brady said, pulling her back. "This isn't your fault. She's just being unreasonable. She needs a minute to cool off."

With that, he strode into the dining room, instructed the staff to serve dinner, and sat down to eat with Fiona and Maeve as if nothing had happened.

I was left alone on the second-floor terrace. The sound of their laughter drifted up from below, and a single, hot tear escaped, splashing onto the cold tile. In that moment, clarity struck me.

We shared a roof, but we were worlds apart, speaking languages the other could no longer comprehend.

I closed my eyes, forcing the tears back. When I opened them again, my gaze was sharp with resolve.

Eventually, Fiona left with Maeve.

Brady walked over, trying to pull me into his arms. "I was too harsh earlier. I'm sorry."

I didn't resist. I let him hold me, his body warm against mine, but the warmth never reached my heart.

My mind drifted back to the days when Rosalie was sick. Chemotherapy had stolen all her hair, and she couldn't bear to look in the mirror anymore.

I'd sketched the rose during that time. I wanted her to see something beautiful, to give her a moment of escape from the pain.

Rosalie had been overjoyed. She traced the lines on the paper, a smile gracing her face for the first time in days.

"Mamma, look. It's beautiful, just like me."

I smiled and nodded, tears already streaming down my face.

When Brady came home, he'd glanced at the sketch impatiently. "Nicely drawn. Don't let her tear it."

Then he was back on his calls, always busy, always with "family business" more urgent than his own daughter.

He did contribute—providing the best medical resources money could buy. But he left the emotional torment, the agonizing vigils, and the utter despair for me to bear alone.

And now, he wanted to strip me of my last memento.

I pulled myself from the memory and gently pushed him away. "Brady, the words I've heard most from you these past few years are 'I'm sorry'."

When I gave birth, he was busy. I faced the risks of labor alone. When Rosalie was sick, he was busy. I sat by her bedside alone. When Rosalie passed away, he was busy. I arranged her funeral alone.

And after everything, he would just casually toss out an "I'm sorry."

With every hollow apology, my heart grew a little colder.

In the dim light, most of Brady's face was lost in shadow. I couldn't read his expression, but when he looked up, our eyes met. His gaze was utterly empty.

A sharp pain seized my chest.

When I spoke again, my voice was fractured. "But I don't need your apology."

He frowned, confused. "Then what do you need? Love? We've been married ten years. For people like us, those intangible things are meaningless."

I stared at the man I had been married to for a decade. He looked the same, but his heart had never truly been mine.

As I stood there in silence, his phone rang.

"Alyssa, don't overthink things. There's an urgent family matter, I have to go." He patted my shoulder reassuringly and turned to leave.

But just as he reached the door, it burst open and Fiona rushed in.

Tears streamed down her face as she choked out the words, "Brady, my place—it was raided! I don't know what to do."

I heard Brady's voice, suddenly gentle. "Don't worry. I'll handle it myself. Right now."

The door slammed shut, plunging the terrace into silence. A bitter smile touched my lips.

Not even when Rosalie was dying in the ICU had I seen Brady this concerned.

A cold dread washed over me.

He didn't love me. I'd known it all along.