A Long-Planned Love

When our marriage contract expired, I found out I was pregnant.

Charlie Newman’s voice was icy.

"If it’s a boy, we’re even."

I asked quietly, "And if it’s a girl?"

He paused–then said coldly, "Then we keep trying until you give me a son."

I sighed.

Three years of marriage couldn’t compete with the need for an heir.

However, one night, when I went downstairs for water, I saw him kneeling in the attic, eyes devout, voice trembling.

"Merciful God, please grant me a daughter. If you hear my prayer and make my wish come true, I will give generously to your church and serve you faithfully all my life."

When I got the pregnancy test results, I still could not believe it.

Pregnant.

Charlie Newman and I were married for a year under a business contract. We were meticulous–careful to the point of paranoia. There was no way this should have happened.

So where did the tiny life inside me come from?

First, I never betrayed him.

Second, I have never been with anyone else.

Third, if it was not his; Whose could it possibly be?

And yet, of all times, it had to happen now.

In just a few days, our marriage contract would expire.

Once the date hit, we would part ways–clean and simple. No lingering ties. If we passed each other in the future, we wouldn't even need to exchange greetings.

What about now?

I let out a long breath, my hand unconsciously resting against my stomach.

A memory surfaced–something I once asked him casually.

"Do you like children?"

He sat on the sofa, posture relaxed but face cold as frost. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

Three words.

"Don't like them."

Now? A child neither of us planned for showed up anyway.

Right before we were supposed to go our separate ways.

When I got home, the lights in the living room were on.

Charlie was walking out of the kitchen with a plate of steak in one hand, still holding the spatula in the other.

He hates outsiders in the house. Ever since we got married, he handled every single meal himself.

When he heard the door, he lifted his gaze slightly and nodded once.

"Wash up. Eat."

Four crisp words. Efficient. Minimal.

He never wasted syllables.

I tightened my grip on my handbag strap, debating whether to take out the test report.

Before I could decide, he suddenly looked up and fixed his eyes on me.

His gaze was sharp–like a blade sliding straight into my chest.

'Forget it. I'll tell him after dinner.'

The table was quiet except for the scrape of cutlery against porcelain.

Exactly like every other night.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Bad mood?"

I froze, then instinctively shook my head.

He frowned slightly. "Maxed out your card again?"

I shook my head.

"Didn't get the limited-edition shoes you wanted?"

Another shake.

He paused for a moment. His tone remained flat, but something beneath it shifted.

"Tired of this?"

Tired