Ruined by the White Veil

The Man Who Came Home

When I brought the man in the black suit back to my front door, he hesitated for a few seconds. He didn't step inside right away.

I turned to look at him. Since we were already here, what was the point of bringing up the past again? So, I reached out and pulled him in. "Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat."

I walked into the kitchen to get started, but when I turned around, I saw him tying on an apron and rinsing vegetables at the sink.

For a moment, I froze. Vincent had always been an executive, far too busy to lift a finger around the house. He rarely stayed home. He would eat, then rush off again, always saying he had clients to meet. Yet every time he came back, he smelled of the same expensive perfume.

Now, he was quietly slicing vegetables, handing the chopped pieces to me with such gentle care that I could hardly believe it was him.

"You don't have to help," I said softly. "I'm used to cooking on my own."

He glanced at the cutting board. "Do you like spicy food that much?"

I followed his gaze to the pile of red chili peppers. Remembering how Vincent always preferred mild dishes, I explained, "I'm going to make some stir-fried greens for you. These are for me."

Even though he had come back, I still couldn't let go of the anger from the day he abandoned me at our wedding. My tone came out colder than I intended.

To my surprise, he only smiled. "If you like spicy food, I can learn to eat it too. You don't have to make something separate for me."

The warmth in his voice startled me. My hand slipped, and the knife nicked my fingertip. Blood welled up instantly, stinging deep.

"Don't move," he said sharply, his voice tense and urgent in a way I didn't recognize. "Where's the first-aid kit?"

I pointed it out, and he hurried to get it, tending to the cut with careful hands. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air, pulling me back to another time.

Once, when I had burned myself, I'd gone to Vincent for comfort. He'd frowned, called me dramatic, and told me to buy ointment myself. I still remembered how he'd turned back to polishing the limited-edition mug Grace had given him.

After that, I learned to handle pain on my own.

Now, his fingers brushed my skin, and he gently blew on the wound to ease the sting. His breath was warm against my hand, and my heart gave a sudden, startled thump.

Vincent had never been this tender before. Was this really him?

That night, after dinner, I made up a bed for him in the guest room and went to mine.

We had been together for three years, yet Vincent always insisted he was an old-fashioned man.

Nothing could happen between us before marriage, so we slept in separate rooms.

I was about to turn in when I remembered the custom gown due tomorrow. I'd have to work late to finish it. Moving quietly, I tiptoed into the living room.

The sewing kit was in a drawer. As I passed the guest room, I couldn't resist glancing inside. The door was slightly open. He was awake, and his eyes met mine.

Silently, he scooted over, making room for me beside him.

Understanding what his gesture meant, my cheeks flushed. I whispered, trying to explain, "I have a job to finish tomorrow. I'll just grab what I need and go."

He noticed the needle in my hand, stood, and pulled a pair of gloves from his suit pocket.

"I saw the pinpricks on your fingers earlier," he said. "You must've been hurt a lot. These gloves are custom-made. They won't dull your touch, and the needles won't pierce through."

He slipped them onto my hands himself. They fit perfectly.

He smiled again, a gentle, genuine smile that softened his entire face. "I bought them especially for you. I hope you don't mind."

My body stiffened, a swirl of warmth, confusion, and bittersweet longing coursing through me.

"Mind? I could never be happier," I murmured.

Maybe heaven was finally showing me mercy. Maybe Vincent had really come back to love me.

…

A year passed in the blink of an eye.

In that year, he treated me so well that sometimes I almost believed the storm named Grace had never existed.

Thanks to everything we'd worked through together, I was expecting a baby. The heart he once shattered had slowly been pieced back together by his gentle hands.

To make up for the wedding that never was, we decided to host a baby shower at the manor. He agreed without hesitation.

On the day of the party, I wore a custom-made maternity gown, silk and lace draping softly over my six-month belly.

I didn't want to just stand around, so I helped register the guests.

My husband mingled effortlessly, laughing and chatting, yet his gaze, soft and affectionate, kept drifting back to me.

The air was thick with the scent of flowers and cake. Everything was perfect, until a man and woman appeared at the gate.

The man, dressed in a white trench coat, looked at me first in surprise, then in confusion.

He walked straight up, his voice oddly familiar. "Fiona? What's going on here? Why are there so many people at our house?"

I frowned, searching my memory, but I couldn't place his face. "Excuse me, do I know you?"

I tried to sound polite, one hand instinctively moving to shield my belly.

His eyes followed the gesture, widening when he saw my rounded belly. Then, out of nowhere, he reached toward me, his hand trembling. "Is that… my child?"

The words weren't loud, but they hit me like a bolt of lightning.

"That's nonsense!" I snapped, stepping back. I turned and called out, voice rising in panic, "Darling! Come quick! This man's trying to harass me!"