FROSTBOUND

8 — Fear and Disappointment

~Odessa~

The room seemed to shrink the moment the door shut behind him. Shutting his dangerous aura along with him as he left. Instinctively I recoiled, my body folding into itself, my knees drawn up to my chest as my arms locked around them, the desperation to disappear from this horrible reality clawing at my chest.

What have I done to deserve this kind of harsh treatment from him?

Where had I gone wrong?

Fear settled deep into my skin, leaving me trembling with tears blurring my vision. The tears continued freely down my cheeks, my mind in chaos trying to understand what was happening around me. But everything felt foreign.

Still sobbing, Margaret wrapped her arms around me.

"Ju–Juliana, are you okay?" She whispered.

I forced my gaze up at her gentle face, contradicting my devastated one.

"Come, stand, my dear." She said, urging me up. Taking the duvet and dabbing it over my shoulders, I felt the bed soft beneath me as I sat down.

Contrary to the man I believed was my husband, my mother-in-law was more gentle and safer to be with, not to be compared with the man who almost scared me to my grave.

Margaret continued to speak, the sound of her voice reeling in the fear that had settled deep into my heart. Slowly, my uneven breaths grew steadier, the relentless pounding of my heart growing into a calmer rhythm.

She stared at me, wiping away my tears.

"Shush. That's enough now. Please don't cry anymore." She coaxed me deeper into her arms, her assuring voice making me feel safer.

"Mo–Mother, are you sure he is my husband?" I couldn't help but wonder. "He kept saying I wasn't her? Do I look like a ghost? Did you tell him I died?" I couldn't help asking too many questions at once.

"Of course not, my dear. You're alive," Margaret exclaimed sharply. "And yes, my son is your husband! Why would you think otherwise? You're no ghost, and you did not die in that accident!" She strongly affirmed, moving at once to the table close by.

In a swift move, she gathered the photographs on the table and returned to laying them across the bed, carefully guiding my attention to them.

One by one, she pointed to each image, explaining the people in the photos. "This is a picture of you and Adrian," She said, pointing at the one she brought closer to me.

My eyes fell on the photo in her hand, recognizing the face there. It was the man a while ago—my husband Adrian, and beside him in the picture with none other than me. It was clearly my face in that photo with him.

Our wedding photo.

"He is your husband." She emphasized and explained further. "You two got married three years ago,"

Three years ago? My breath caught, the knowledge of it sending a tremor into the pit of my stomach. Everything is still feeling unclear to me.

Had I somehow ended up married to a man who hated me?

Was it why Margaret hesitated earlier in letting me see him? Maybe it was all lies about her telling me he wasn't aware that I would return home today to surprise him. It could only mean that she had said that to me in an effort to make me happy.

Perhaps I had ended up not being loved by my husband.

My eyes drew closer to the photo again. There I was with Adrian, smiling so broadly at the camera that one could count the number of teeth in my mouth.

Margaret brought another photo. This one was different from the first one.

Here I wore a designer's blue jumpsuit while Adrian was in a black suit. His left hand wrapped around my waist and with his other hand, we both held a golden trophy carved into a lady's pointed heels.

Beside us, a woman held a banner towards us, the bold letters of the words shimmering in a gold glow.

INTERNATIONAL FASHION EXCELLENCE AWARD TO MR. AND MRS. ADRIAN MACMILLAN.

Also on the banner were several pictures of branded collections and the name of the company written below, 'The Taste Of July.'

"That was a year ago. You and Adrian won a company's award recognized and hosted by the governor of the state for the best fashion design company across the globe." She went further to explain.

"You two work in this company called The Taste Of July. It's the top fashion design company in the city producing clothes, fashion accessories, jewelry and other fashion add-ons, even digital creative products."

Those things sounded fascinating to my ears, but knowing nothing about all she said only ended up adding more sadness to my heart.

"I don't know about these things. I don't remember any of the things you mentioned," I said.

"And it's okay, my dear. That's why I'll be here to teach you everything," She said and paused. "There is also one more thing about the company. They also have a modeling industry where these beautiful products are modeled by beautiful men and women."

"It's beautiful," I whispered, words slipping behind a fading smile. It was indeed beautiful to see all these, yet it broke something inside me to know those memories no longer belonged to me.

"Yes, it is. Oh, hold on. Lest I forget, there's another important one you must know."

I nodded, watching her bring yet another photograph closer.

This time, in the photograph, I was cradling a beautiful baby, nestled peacefully against my chest. Adrian stood behind us, his arms wrapping around us like a shield.

I couldn't deny the spark that emanated from his eyes as he stared down at both of us, our smiles unfolding like sunflowers turning toward the morning sun.

"Do I have a child too?" I asked, instantly taking the pictures of her.

"Yes, dear," Margaret said softly. "Your husband named her Julian— Short for your name."

My face softened into a tender smile, warmth spilling into my eyes. A child he named after me. That must be how deeply he had loved us.

"Where is she? Where is my child?" I asked desperately, eyes sweeping across the room to find her.

"Oh, sorry my dear, Juliana. The sad news about it is that Julian passed away three months after she was born. After that, you have not conceived again. It's been a year now," Margaret declared with a voice carefully measured, her hands stretching out just in time to catch me before I could collapse into the agony of the news.