The Love that Kills me

Chapter 14

The days that followed was a gentle hum of small moments—tiny threads of connection that wove something delicate and hopeful in Hope’s heart. Every day, she woke up thinking about the movie they’ll watch the following weekend. It wasn’t just about the film; it was about the promise of sharing something real with Stephen, even if only for a few hours in a darkened theater.

Their days were filled with small talk, nothing dramatic or profound—just soft exchanges that made her pulse quicken and her chest flutter.

“How are you feeling today?” Stephen would ask as they shared breakfast.

“I’m fine,” she’d reply, her cheeks warm.

“Are you tired? Do you need anything?” he’d add, his brow furrowed in gentle concern.

She would always say no, even if she was tired or needed something. Because just hearing those questions—feeling that someone noticed—was enough to make her heart soar.

It was Friday of the week, her parents came to visit. It was a rare occurrence, but this time was different: Stephen was home too. Her father’s laughter filled their small living room as he took in the sight of Stephen and Hope sitting side by side.

“Take care of my daughter, Stephen,” her father said, his voice hearty and warm.

“I will, Mr. Smith,” Stephen replied politely.

“Just call me Dad,” her father said with a grin. “You’re married to my daughter, after all!”

He laughed as though he’d never once raised his voice at her, never once made her feel small or worthless. But the memories flashed through Hope’s mind like a film she couldn’t pause: the way her father had humiliated her, the way he’d compared her to Daia—always making sure she knew she wasn’t enough.

She forced a smile as her father’s arm came around her shoulders, his hand heavy and possessive. “I hope to see my grandchildren soon, okay?” he said, his tone deceptively light.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew what he was really saying—what he expected of her. Her father had always believed that her worth was measured by what she could give him: a grandchild, a legacy. The weight of that expectation pressed down on her like a stone.

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she stared at the floor. Stephen noticed, his eyes narrowing. Gently, he reached over and pulled her closer to his side, his arm around her protectively.

“We’re still talking about it,” Stephen said calmly, his voice firm but even.

“Talking about it?” her father scoffed. “Why would you need to talk about it? You’re already married. Or is Hope still being… difficult?” His words were barbed with that old, familiar cruelty.

The comment made Hope flinch. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay. She wanted to tell her father to stop, to remind him that she wasn’t some pawn in his games. But her voice stayed stuck in her throat.

Her father left soon afterward, his laughter still ringing in her ears. As soon as the door closed behind him, Hope let out a slow breath. She felt so tired—so bone-deep weary of pretending.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, her shoulders slumping. *I’m tired,* she thought over and over again. *I’m so, so tired.*

But she still forced a smile, turning to Stephen. She didn’t want to irritate him, didn’t want to seem ungrateful for his kindness. She tried to hold the smile in place, even though it felt like it was cracking her in half.

Stephen reached out, his hand covering her mouth gently. “Don’t smile if you’re not feeling it,” he said quietly. “You’re not a robot, Hope.”

For a second, she just stared at him, her lips trembling under his touch. Then, as if a dam had finally broken inside her, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks. She tried to hide them at first, tried to turn her face away. But Stephen didn’t let her.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. “I’m here, Hope. I’m here.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, her sobs muffled against his shirt. All the fear and the shame and the exhaustion poured out of her in a flood of hot tears. Stephen’s hands rubbed gentle circles on her back, his voice a steady whisper in her ear.

“It’s okay,” he said again, his breath warm against her temple. “I’ve got you.”

She clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. For the first time in so long, she let herself cry—really cry—without worrying about who might hear or what they might think. And in that small moment, with Stephen’s arms around her, she felt like maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t completely alone.

When her tears finally slowed, she pulled back a little, sniffling. Stephen reached up and wiped her cheeks with his thumb, his touch gentle and patient.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said softly.

She nodded, her throat tight. “I know,” she whispered. “But sometimes… it’s just easier to pretend.”

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. The way he held her, the way he looked at her—it told her everything she needed to know.

For the rest of the evening, she let herself lean into his quiet strength. They didn’t talk much, but that was okay. Sometimes, words weren’t what she needed. Sometimes, it was enough to just sit together, breathing in the same air, sharing the same silence.

As she lay in bed later that night, she thought about how the week had started: with shy smiles and small talk that made her heart flutter. And now, here she was, her heart cracked open in front of Stephen.

She didn’t know what would happen next. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to give her father the grandchildren he wanted, or if Stephen would ever see her as more than just a woman who was convenient, who was there.

But for tonight, she let herself hope that maybe… just maybe… this was the start of something real.