Waiting
The hotel suite in Tokyo was cold despite the heater running full blast. Christian sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, laptop balanced on his knees, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. The city lights glittered far below through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he wasn’t looking at them.
The video call connected.
The screen filled with the soft glow of the nursery back home. Ashley appeared first, hair perfect, makeup flawless, cradling Symphony against her chest. The baby was wrapped in a pale lavender blanket, tiny fists tucked under her chin, eyes half-open and sleepy.
Christian’s breath caught.
“Hey, little one,” he said, voice dropping to the gentlest tone anyone in the mansion had ever heard from him. Soft. Warm. Almost reverent. “Hi, my Symphony.”
Ashley tilted the phone so the camera focused better on the baby’s face. Symphony blinked slowly, recognizing the voice. A small, gummy smile curved her mouth.
“There’s my girl,” Christian murmured, leaning closer to the screen as if he could reach through it. “You look so beautiful tonight. Did you have a good day? Grandma spoil you rotten?”
He smiled... real, unguarded, the kind of smile that softened every hard line on his face. His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, full of something tender and aching.
“I miss you so much, baby,” he whispered. “Daddy’s coming home soon, okay? I promise. I’ll hold you all night if you want. We’ll listen to the rain together. Just you and me.”
Symphony cooed softly, a tiny hand reaching toward the camera. Christian’s throat worked visibly.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Reach for me. I’m right here.”
He stayed like that for a full minute, talking low, telling her about the city lights, promising her the biggest teddy bear from the airport, his voice never rising above a gentle murmur. He was a different man in those moments: patient, adoring, completely undone by the tiny life on the screen.
Then Ashley shifted, turning the camera back to include herself. She smiled brightly, adjusting Symphony in her arms.
“She missed you too, Chris,” Ashley said, voice sweet and lilting. “We both did. The house feels so empty without you.”
Christian’s expression cooled instantly... still polite, but distant. He leaned back slightly.
“She looks happy,” he said neutrally. “That’s all that matters.”
Ashley tilted her head, letting a lock of blonde hair fall over one shoulder.
“She’s been such a good girl. I’ve been taking such good care of her.
You should see how she smiles when I sing to her.
” She batted her lashes, voice dropping playfully.
“Maybe when you get back… I could sing for you too. We could have a little private concert. Just us.”
Christian’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” he said. “Keep her routine the same. And tell Sally to make sure Melody gets to feed her when she needs to.”
Ashley’s smile faltered for a split second. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
“Goodnight, Symphony,” Christian said, voice softening again as he looked directly at the baby. “Daddy loves you. More than anything.”
He ended the call.
The screen went dark.
Christian sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the echo of his own gentle voice still ringing in his ears.
Then he closed the laptop, set it aside, and buried his face in his hands.
The city lights kept shining outside.
But the room felt colder than ever.
×××××××
Three days.
Three endless, suffocating days locked inside the guest room.
Meals came twice a day, slid through the door on a plain tray like she was in prison again. A slice of dry toast, a cup of weak broth, an apple cut into quarters. Nothing warm. Nothing substantial. Just enough to keep her alive, not enough to let her feel human.
Melody sat on the floor with her back against the bed, knees drawn up, staring at the angry red line across her lower abdomen.
One and a half months since the emergency C-section, and the wound still looked raw... edges swollen, weeping clear fluid in places, stitches pulling tight and irritated.
Without medicine, without proper cleaning, healing had stalled completely. Some days it burned; others it itched like fire ants under her skin. She traced the line with trembling fingertips, trying to decide if she could pull the stitches out herself. The thought made her stomach lurch.
She had no scissors. No mirror to see properly. No way to know if infection had spread deeper.
Her breasts ached constantly... heavy, engorged. The milk had slowed to a trickle over the past three days. Symphony hadn’t come to her once. Not for feeding. Not for anything. The silence from the nursery floor was worse than any cry.
The lock clicked.
The door opened just a crack.
Sally slipped inside, quick and quiet, glancing over her shoulder like someone might catch her. She carried a small paper bag clutched tight to her chest.
Melody’s breath caught. She pushed herself up, wincing as the movement tugged at her stitches.
“Sally…?”
Sally shut the door softly behind her and knelt in front of Melody. She opened the bag with shaking hands and pulled out two small pill bottles... one labeled “Ibuprofen,” the other “Cephalexin” (an antibiotic), and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“Take these,” Sally whispered urgently. “One ibuprofen every six hours for the pain. The antibiotic twice a day with food, if you can manage it. And put the ointment on the wound twice a day after cleaning. It’ll help. It has to.”
Melody stared at the bottles, eyes filling instantly.
“Thank you,” she breathed, voice cracking. “Thank you, Sally…”
Sally pressed the bag into Melody’s hands. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not Miss Ashley. Not Victoria. Not anyone. If they find out I brought these…”
“I won’t,” Melody promised, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “I swear. I won’t say a word.”
Sally nodded once, eyes glistening. She hesitated, then added softly, “Symphony’s… she’s fine. She’s eating well. Growing. She misses you, I think. She fusses more when it’s quiet.”
Melody’s throat closed. Fresh tears spilled over.
“Thank you,” she whispered again. “For telling me. For… this.”
Sally gave her a small, sad smile.
“I have to go,” she murmured. “Before someone notices.”
She slipped out as quietly as she’d come.
The lock clicked shut again.
Melody sat there on the floor, pills and ointment cradled in her lap, staring at the closed door.
Three days locked away.
Three days without her daughter.
But for the first time in those three days, she felt a tiny spark of something that wasn’t despair.
Someone still cared.
Even if only one person.
She uncapped the ibuprofen bottle with shaking fingers, swallowed one dry, and began to clean her wound... slowly, carefully, for the first time in days with real hope that it might finally start to heal.
×××××××
I still remember the day we got married. Not the way brides dream of it. Not with flowers, music, or promises.
Just cold marble, fluorescent lights, and the sound of a pen scratching across paper like it was signing a death sentence.
It was the morning after he dragged me out of that holding cell.
We went to the courthouse early before the city woke up. No guests. No family. Just us, a bored clerk, and the judge who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Christian didn’t look at me once while we stood there. He answered the questions in a flat voice, like he was reciting a contract.
When the judge said, “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” he answered “I do” like it was a chore.
Then it was my turn. My voice shook so badly I barely got the words out.
I said “I do” because the alternative was prison.
Because saying no meant losing everything forever.
Because a tiny, stupid part of me still hoped that once the papers were signed, he might look at me and see the girl he used to smile at across conference tables.
Christian picked his up, signed the register with a rough slash of his pen, took out a simple ring from his pocket, then grabbed my left hand.
He yanked it forward, hard enough that I stumbled a step. No gentleness. No pause. He slid the ring onto my finger like he was forcing a shackle into place.
The metal was cold.
It felt wrong.
Heavy.
Final.
I stared at it while the judge pronounced us married. No kiss. No applause.
Just Christian dropping my hand like it burned him and turning away.
A few days later, I went out alone, slipping past Victoria’s watchful eyes, using the last of the cash I had hidden.
I bought a ring for him.
A simple band. Nothing flashy. Just something quiet, something that said I still believed in what we could have been.
I waited until we were alone in the mansion that night.
I held it out to him, palm open, ring shining in the lamplight.
“Christian,” I whispered. “I… I got this for you.”
He glanced at it once.
Then he looked away.
“I don’t want it,” he said.
His voice was flat. Cold. Final.
I stood there, hand trembling, ring still in my palm.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“Please,” I said. “It’s just a ring. It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t want it to.”
He walked past me without another word.
The ring stayed in my hand until my fingers cramped.
I never asked again.
I still have it hidden in the small wooden box under my bed.
The one I keep my comb in.
The one with the few things that still feel like mine.
He never wore it.
He never even touched it.
But I still look at it sometimes.
And I wonder if, in another life, he would have slipped it on himself.
If he would have smiled the way he did when it rained.
If he would have looked at me and said my name like it mattered.
Instead, he married me to punish me.
And I married him because I had nothing left to lose.
The ring sits in the dark now.
Waiting.
Like me.
—Melody
×××××××