Neva wakes to little wet kisses dotting her face.
As her eyes flutter open, Ishmael's handsome, smiling face comes into view.
"Good morning, love," he murmurs, brushing his lips against her warm ones.
"Good morning," she whispers, still dazed and sleepy.
Ishmael shifts to fully hover above her, diving in for another kiss—deeper this time.
The kiss flows with passion, aching, desperate.
"I'm sorry for yesterday," Ishmael says, resting their foreheads together.
Neva just smiles airily, fingers brushing his jaw.
"I made your favorite breakfast." He caresses her hand on his cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to it.
"And I brought your favorite flowers," he adds, eyes gesturing toward the room.
Neva gasps softly.
The master bedroom overflows with bouquets—some arranged in single hues, others a wild mix of roses, dahlias, hydrangeas, irises, daisies, peonies, and more flowers she doesn't know or can't recall. Roses dominate, crowding every surface in a lush floral tide.
"You shouldn't have," she murmurs, her gaze meeting his.
Ishmael just smiles.
"Thank you," she breathes—and closes her eyes, inhaling the fresh, sweet, musky-fruity aroma that fills the room like a garden.
"My pleasure," he whispers, leaning in to kiss her on the lips again.
The kiss turns slow and deep—craving, torturous.
He wants her, needs her.
That desire never fades, always ignited, burning bright—for her, and only her.
His palm drags up her bare thigh, rough against delicate skin, tugging the deep-red silk nightgown upward.
But before she can melt beneath the vulnerability of his resolve, she places her palm on his sinewy chest and pushes gently.
"The twins," she says, breathless, "could be here any moment."
She guesses the time by the birdsong, the soft brightness slipping through white curtains—likely eight in the morning, when the children usually wake and come looking for them.
"I need to shower."
He gives her an agonized look. She chuckles softly and pats his cheek.
But when she moves to shift him off, he grabs her wrist.
"I got you something else," he says, sitting up and reaching for a square, flat, blue velvet box on the nightstand.
She frowns, watching him.
Still smiling, he sits on the bed and pulls her up beside him.
He opens the velvet box, revealing a glittering 80-carat vintage diamond necklace, complete with a matching pair of teardrop-and-vine earrings.
"Is it to your liking?" Ishmael asks, his tone laced with anticipation.
She suddenly falls silent, eyes turning dull.
He frowns. "I'll call home for more options. You can choose whatever fits your taste."
Neva shakes her head, a sigh slipping out at his panicked concern.
"You can choose whatever you like. I'll have an at-home boutique come over if you want," he says, closing the box and grabbing his phone.
Neva catches his arm, halting him mid–motion.
He turns to her, confusion written across his face.
"It's not that I don't like it, Ishmael," she says softly, pausing.
"I know these gifts speak of your guilt," she murmurs, hands falling onto her lap.
"I understand where you're coming from. And I accept it. But I don't need any of this."
His gaze softens—something deeper in it now, almost indescribable.
She takes the jewelry box and opens it.
"It's beautiful," she whispers, tracing the interlaced stones with her fingers.
"But I can't keep it. I already have so many.
You don't need to feel so bad about yesterday." She waves her hand lightly, trying to downplay it.
"My mind just wanders strangely sometimes," she adds with a weak chuckle, closing the box gently.
Ishmael cups her cheeks, crashing their lips together in a kiss heavy with apology, ardor, and devotion.
"In truth, your presence gives me life," he whispers, resting his forehead against hers. "Nothing in this world I give you will ever be enough. But don't assume these are just tokens of regret. You're my wife.
Everything I own is yours.
Don't feel compelled to refuse them."
"These are shallow compared to the lengths I'm willing to go for you." He presses a kiss to her forehead.
Neva laughs softly.
"Am I so rich? So rich to have such a loving husband?" she teases, kissing his lips.
Ishmael smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
She wraps her arms around his neck with a gentle smile, and he surrenders to that overwhelming, consuming love that he cups her jaw and presses his lips to hers—kissing her artlessly.
---
The day swirls into a sweet, warm reverie of an afternoon.
Something in the breeze, the rustling leaves, the flower petals dancing in the garden—all of it feels airbrushed in euphoria.
Birds chirp. Bees buzz. Butterflies dance.
And the sound of children laughing as they play with their father stirs Neva's heart.
She smiles at the sight: her husband and a reluctant son playing kitchen with her daughter.
The pale pink walk-in play kitchen takes up most of the open backyard area. Inaya's fever has nearly vanished—she still has a slight cold but bounces with endless energy.
Neva laughs as Ishmael—tall and broad—somehow fits onto Inaya's tiny pink-and-white chair, complete with bunny-ear backrest. Thankfully, it has no armrests.
Isaiah, grumpy and arms crossed, sits beside him, clearly unamused. He glares at Inaya, who dances out of her play kitchen in an apron, carrying a tray of artificial food.
She serves her father first—piling his plate with pretend meat and vegetables.
Ishmael plays along, taking a plastic fork, stabbing a fake steak, and chewing it with eyes closed, pretending to swim with the delicious flavours.
When Inaya asks him of how it tastes, he gives her a big smile and says it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
Inaya squeals with delight and leaps into his arms.
Meanwhile, Isaiah mutters complaints, wishing to play his "boy games" in the playroom instead.
Inaya scolds him for not eating, hands on her hips—mirroring her mother.
They love each other dearly, but they fight just as fiercely.
Before she can pull his hair and he kicks her, Ishmael gently separates them and restores peace.
Neva sighs, watching from a short distance, a book open in her hands as she rests on a soft, cushioned swing.
It hangs from a thick oak tree, its leaves painted in shades of gold, orange, and red. Roses bloom in vines behind and around her, their scent rich and lush.
"Mumma!" Inaya waves at her, drawing Ishmael's and Isaiah's eyes.
Neva waves back, her smile blooming as she looks at her husband and son.
Just then, the butler—Mr. Frisk—approaches Ishmael, followed by Manager Cha.
Mr. Frisk politely excuses himself and steps away.
Manager Cha asks for a private word. Ishmael stands, pats Inaya's head, and glances at Neva.
She tilts her head at his expression—tense and unreadable.
He offers her a thin smile before walking off with Cha.
The children, now left to their own devices, begin chasing each other through the garden and slowly disappear from view.
Neva sighs, returning her attention to the final chapter of her novel.
As a few ponderous minutes pass and she turns another page, she hears heavy footsteps crossing the trimmed grass.
When she looks up, a soft gasp escapes her lips.
The air burns in her lungs.
A man stands before her—a tall, striking man in a black suit, similar to Ishmael's guards.
Jet-black hair, neatly trimmed.
Cocoa-brown eyes shimmer with a strange mix of emotion—softness, sorrow, and barely restrained tears.
His lips tremble.
He takes a step forward, their gazes threaded in silence.
Then, suddenly—he drops to his knees, so close she could reach out.
Tears stream down his face.
And Neva's heart clenches at the sight of his unknown sorrow.
She reaches out to touch his cheek, and a broken sob slips from his lips.
And she doesn't mind as he covers her hand with his, cold and trembling, and leans into her touch, desperate for warmth.
And she doesn't flinch when his tears soak her skin.
For something about this man—who shares a resembling visage as her husband—she cannot resist this insermountable urge to comfort him. Protect him.
"Angel," he whispers.
A flicker of light ignites in her eyes.
And she wonders why...
Why does she hums back to him in response.