24
Six months later, I have a checkup at the rehabilitation center. The therapist tells me that starting tomorrow, I don't need to come anymore.
At first, I don't quite understand, but as I'm walking to the stairwell, Lincoln picks me up and spins me around twice. Suddenly, it hits me—I'm finally recovered.
Excited, I fly back to the UK with Lincoln.
I ask Lincoln if he arranged that too.
Lincoln says he wishes he had, then hands me a business card, saying a fashion magazine wants to interview me.
When I talk about how I almost gave up on my dream of becoming a fashion designer after injuring my hand, the reporter asks how I managed to overcome that challenge.
I smile and say, "My husband has been incredibly supportive of me. I love him."
While I'm being interviewed, Lincoln is standing right behind the camera.
He later takes that clip from the video, where I say I love him, and plays it on repeat at home at full volume.
"Help!" I blush and climb onto him to grab the phone. "Enough already!"
Lincoln holds the phone up high, out of my reach. "I'm going to use it as my morning alarm."
My face feels hot. "You jerk!"
"You love this jerk."
I frown. "You're not a young man anymore. How are you still so annoying?"
"I admit I'm annoying, but don't call me old." Lincoln presses me down onto the sofa, starting to pull off my pants. "Your husband is in his prime."
In less than half an hour, I'm already on the verge of collapse.
Lincoln whispers in my ear, "One more time?"
My face heats up again as I bury my head in the pillow, pretending to be dead.
After that, I return to Central Saint Martins to continue my studies.
The next three years fly by. Lincoln buys back the old house our family used to own and gives it to me as a birthday gift.
It's now filled with jasmine flowers again, and my mom lives there. Lincoln and I go back every weekend to have dinner with her.
Sandwich, our dog, has grown up and become eager to find a mate. But maybe it's my maternal bias, because although he looks handsome and mature to me, none of the female dogs in the neighborhood seem to like him.
Every time Sandwich meets a pretty female dog, he enthusiastically sniffs her behind, only for her to quickly shy away.
As a mother, I can only think that since my son isn't particularly attractive, maybe giving him some extra money will increase his chances of finding a partner.
So every time I take him for a walk, I pack a lot of dog treats in my bag. In their world, those are like currency.
During these three years, the gym Lincoln designed is also completed. He won the RIBA National Award, and his company, Future, firmly established itself in Europe, with orders lined up for the next twenty years.
And now, I'm about to graduate from Central Saint Martins.
Lately I've been sleeping only five hours a night and haven't had time to eat because I'm busy with my graduation project.
From the initial brainstorming to design, then buying materials, cutting, and making the final product, and finally finding models to wear it and renting a professional studio to photograph them—it's been nonstop.
One night, as we're in bed, Lincoln touches my waist. "Baby, you're too thin. I'll have to make sure you eat more from now on. How about we go out for dinner tomorrow night..."
I nod, my ears still listening to him, but my eyes are already closed.
The next day, Lincoln has to go to work early, and since my car is in for maintenance, I take a taxi to the studio to meet the photographer and model.
The photographer takes the shots, and I stand by the computer, reviewing them. By the time everything's done and I walk out, it's already dark.
A man's voice suddenly speaks beside me. "Good evening." It's the model who wore my designs for the shoot—a tall, blond Dane with blue eyes.
I turn my head and give him a polite smile. "Good evening."
"The shirt you designed is really impressive. It has a wildness to it that reminds me of the tribes in Pembrokeshire."
I'm a bit surprised. "That's exactly my inspiration."
Actually, I'm not from London; my grandparents were from Wales, where they still maintain their own language, customs, and traditions. My graduation project is a tribute to my grandparents' homeland.
The model nods. "If I had known you were the designer, I would have put on an extra face mask last night so today's photos would have turned out even better."
"Thank you," I say with a smile, taking a step back to put some distance between us.
"How are you getting home?" he asks. "I drove here. Want me to give you a ride?"
His intentions are obvious. "I'm married."
He smiles. "I don't mind."
But I do!
I frown slightly, about to say something, when a car approaches from the distance and stops by the curb. The door opens, and Lincoln steps out. "Good evening, sweetheart."
I walk over and link my arm with Lincoln's, saying to the man, "Goodbye, my husband is here to pick me up."
Lincoln opens the passenger door for me, then walks around the car to get into the driver's seat. As the car drives forward, I glance at him. He seems calm.
The calm before the storm.
I quietly say, "He's my model. I ran into him after leaving the studio."
"Yeah," Lincoln replies tersely.
The car stops at a red light, and Lincoln's face is illuminated. I reach over to hold his hand and smile. "I've had such a busy day. I'm glad you came to get me."
Lincoln glances at me. "You didn't know I was coming? I told you last night."
Uh-oh.
My palms start to sweat.
The light turns green, and the car moves through the intersection before slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road.
The next second, Lincoln leans over, pushing me down onto the seat as he kisses me.
"Lincoln—" I'm caught completely off guard by the kiss.
He grips my chin, not too gently, rolling my tongue with his and even biting my lip.
"Let's go home quickly. Sandwich hasn't had dinner yet," I push him away.
Lincoln's expression is unreadable, and his tone is cold. "He can skip dinner. He's already too fat."
He's jealous.
I feel a bit pleased but don't want him to be upset, so I explain, "Sweetheart, he's just a colleague. We've only met once, and I don't even remember his name."
"Yeah," Lincoln replies simply, his hand moving to unhook my bra.
I tilt my head up to kiss his chin. "Don't be angry."
"I'm not angry," Lincoln says, his hand slipping under my bra.
The result is that we get home very late, my legs weak and my body covered in sweat, feeling like a beached jellyfish.
But Lincoln's mood has clearly improved. He feeds me dinner while holding me, then carries me to the shower.
The only unhappy one is Sandwich, who doesn't get to eat until midnight and devours two large bowls of food.
The next day, I continue working on my graduation project, but Lincoln starts picking me up and dropping me off every day.
The first week after my graduation, there are no trips, no fancy restaurants, or any celebratory activities.
I'm too exhausted, so I spend the whole week sleeping at home.
When I finally recover and decide to take Sandwich out for a walk, I notice something strange—Sandwich won't let me carry him anymore.
Sandwich is a brave dog. He's not afraid of bugs, thunder, or the sound of fireworks like other dogs. The only thing he's ever been scared of is riding the elevator.
Normally, every time I take him out, I have to carry him into the elevator.
But today, something's different.
When the elevator doors open, I bend down and open my arms to Sandwich, but he just glances at me before quietly turning and walking inside.
I can tell he's still scared. As the elevator descends, he huddles in the corner, his legs trembling slightly.
This is so strange.
That evening, when Lincoln comes home, I tell him that Sandwich won't let me carry him anymore.
"Really?" Lincoln puts down his briefcase, bends over, and opens his arms to Sandwich.
Sandwich immediately runs into his arms.
I feel heartbroken.
"There's no place for me in this home anymore. You two should just live together," I sigh, lying on the sofa.
Sandwich runs over to me, placing his front paws on the edge of the sofa.
"Go to your dad," I say, glancing at him. "You don't like me anyway."
Sandwich stays still, quietly watching me. His gaze is focused and calm, with a hint of... concern?
His stare makes me break into a cold sweat, so I grab my phone and search, "Why would a dog suddenly refuse to be held and stare at owner strangely?"
Google quickly provides an answer: "A dog's sense of smell is a million times more sensitive than a human's. They can detect not only drugs and bombs but also human diseases."
I put down my phone and shout to Lincoln, who is cooking in the kitchen, "Lincoln, I might have cancer!"
Lincoln comes out holding a spatula. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
I shake my phone. "It's not me saying it, it's Google."
Lincoln immediately calls his doctor friend and schedules a full-body checkup for me. The doctor asks why this is happening so suddenly since I usually get an annual checkup.
Lincoln explains Sandwich's unusual behavior and what I found on Google.
The doctor starts laughing so loudly that I can hear it over the phone. "Is there a possibility—just maybe—that your wife is pregnant?"
Lincoln hangs up the phone and rushes out the door. When he returns, he's carrying a bag with five different brands of pregnancy tests.
"Go take the test," he says, placing the bag in my hands and gently pushing me towards the bathroom.
The result is shocking.
I sit on the toilet, staring at the first pregnancy test. It shows two lines. The second test also shows two lines.
...
One of the tests is quite advanced and even displays the pregnancy duration.
I see the bold "3 weeks" on it, and suddenly remember that chaotic night three weeks ago when Lincoln got jealous, and we ended up in the car.
I open the bathroom door and walk out.
"Well?" Lincoln asks anxiously.
"I..." I clear my throat, "I'm pregnant."
And Sandwich, quite clearly, is the first one in our family to know this good news.