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.