How to live happily ever after as a cheating wife

Chapter 4

The car rolled to a stop, and Graham Severan stepped out first, moving around to open the door for Rosemary. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting his hand, her grip light but steady. As soon as she was upright, he let go, his gaze sweeping over her in quick assessment, ensuring she was strong enough to stand on her own.

Rosemary lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight and took in the sight of their house. The red-brick structure stood tall and dignified on the quiet, tree-lined street. Large bay windows framed in dark wood hinted at the warmth within, while the wrought-iron gate, functional rather than decorative, formed a quiet boundary between the home and the bustling city beyond.

Before, she had scorned its simplicity, longing for something grander.

She turned her head slightly and caught sight of Carter—their driver, yes, but also Graham’s old comrade from the war. She had barely acknowledged him, viewing him as little more than another fixture in the household.

“You must be tired from the drive,” she said, her voice softer than it once was, hinting at a strange sense of gratitude.

Carter’s brows lifted slightly before he quickly straightened, nodding.

“Just doing my duty, madam.”

Duty? And she was the one who forget her duty.

The air between them grew heavy again, thick with unspoken emotions. Just as she considered how to break the silence, Graham spoke.

“You go inside. Sutton’s waiting me.”

And with that, he turned and strode off without another word.

Rosemary watched him go before exhaling softly. Shrugging, she stepped inside.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she felt as if she had come back from a dream to reality. A dream that once seemed beautiful, but later turned out to be a complete nightmare.

The house itself bore the marks of time and repair, once belonging to a declining noble family, had been salvaged, reinforced, and made livable again.

Yet, despite its history, Rosemary had always found it lacking. Compared to the grand, symmetrical estates of the aristocracy, this home felt patched together, neither old nor new, neither lavish nor poor. She had scorned its imperfections.

Stepping into the house, Rosemary was immediately enveloped by a sense of quiet history.

Her steps carried her toward the bedroom first. The furniture inside bore the weight of age. A grand wardrobe stood against one wall. Dust motes danced in the light as Rosemary reached out, her fingers grazing the cool glass.

The reflection that met her gaze was both familiar and foreign.

The woman before her wore fine clothes—ones that marked her as fashionable, elegant. Her hair, styled in the latest fashion, framed a face that, despite illness, still retained a quiet radiance. She looked… untouched, as if her days of turmoil had left no mark. But Rosemary knew better. The changes lay deeper, hidden beneath the surface.

Drawing in a breath, she stepped away and turned to the wardrobe, opening its heavy doors. Inside, a collection of dresses hung neatly, accompanied by gloves, hats, and shoes. The sight of them unsettled her. She never thought she would see them again.

Closing the wardrobe, she glanced around the bedroom once more. Then, her gaze drifted toward another room.

Stepping inside, she found wooden toys were scattered across the floor. A rocking horse stood in the corner, its wooden head worn smooth from use. Slowly, Rosemary reached out and ran her fingers over it, a lump forming in her throat.

The guilt was overwhelming.

Before she could fully gather herself, a small voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Mama?”

She turned sharply.

A little boy took an eager step forward. And then, in an instant, he was in her arms.

“Mama! You’re back!”

The moment the body lunged into her arms, Rosemary felt a wave of warmth and sorrow rise in her chest. The scent of child—milk, sun, and a faint trace of honey—filled her senses, cutting through the numbness she had carried for days.

When she came back to herself, she was already kneeling on the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around her son, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

But she hadn’t even gotten a good look at him yet.

Loosening her embrace, she leaned back, allowing space for the boy to stand straight. Finally, they faced each other.

You can tell a child's character from an early age.

Gairos Severan had inherited his father’s striking features—the fine, well-formed brows, the straight, noble line of his nose. Though still young, he already carried himself with an air of quiet composure, like a boy well-mannered beyond his years.

Rosemary could only stare.

The boy, cheerful just moments ago, faltered at the sight of her tear-streaked face. His small mouth parted in concern. "Mama, why are you crying?"

She wiped her cheek hastily.

Rosemary had shed tears before—alone, behind locked doors, where no one could see her weakness. But now, under Graham’s silent scrutiny, she found herself exposed in a way she had never been before.

Still, she forced a smile. "Because I missed you so much."

Gairos let out a relieved breath before nodding solemnly. "I missed you too, Mama! You were gone for days. I kept asking when you would come back, but Papa always said he didn’t know."

Rosemary’s thoughts drifted to Graham.

Though reserved, he had always been patient and gentle with Gairos—far more than she had ever been. But this time, things felt different. She wasn’t sure if Graham would let his anger toward her affect Gairos, simply because he was her son.

Oblivious to her silence, Gairos continued, "I asked Papa to go find you, but he wouldn’t. He said if I asked again, he’d give me a good thrashing."

The little boy pursed his lips in indignation, his eyes shining with grievance.

Rosemary smoothed his hair. "And did he?"

"No." Gairos sniffled. Then, with great conviction, he added, "But he’s still bad for taking so long to bring you home."

It was a big mercy that Graham hadn’t raised a hand against the child in his frustration.

Considering the circumstances, Rosemary suspected he had gone through his own share of anger, pain, and internal war. The fact that he had restrained himself—had not lashed out at their son, nor let his bitterness spill over—was perhaps the best proof of his control.

Not bad for a man who had built all wealthy from nothing.

"It wasn’t your father’s fault," Rosemary murmured, drawing Gairos into her arms again. Her voice softened. "It was mine." She pressed her lips to the top of his head. "And I promise you, my darling, I will never leave you for so long again."

A vow.

A mother’s vow—one that held more weight than any she had ever spoken before.

She felt Gairos shift in her arms. His small hands patted her back clumsily, the way a child mimics an adult’s gestures of comfort.

"Don’t cry, mama," he whispered. "If you have to leave, take me with you next time."

Rosemary exhaled a quiet laugh, wiping the last of her tears as she nodded. "Alright."

She ask Gairos gently, "Have you had your lunch yet?"

The boy nodded. "Yes. There was rib soup and roasted vegetables. They weren’t bad."

Rosemary’s gaze flickered over him. He looked well. The nurse had taken good care of him.

She had always thought of her son as a quiet child—just like his father, solemn beyond his years. But today, for the first time, she saw something different. The brightness in his eyes. The ease of his laughter.

What would have happened if she had never returned?

Would that light have faded? Would the joy in his voice have withered away?

A deep ache settled in her chest.

She reached out and cupped his small face, her thumb brushing his warm cheek.

From now on, this boy would be happy.

She would not let that smile disappear.