Grown-ups were conditioned to mask all crumbles and rumbles with insouciance.

When I got back to the bedroom, I went on with my routine—I took a shower, brushed my teeth, blew my hair, and went to bed.

However, I was just tossing and turning.

This very night, Ashton didn’t come to bed.

Both of us had our own emotions to deal with. To talk it out would only cut deeper into our wounds.

As I finally started to zone out a bit in the wee hours of the night, a man opened the door. “Scarlett.” In a deep soft tone, he called out my name.

He walked up to my bedside and murmured my name a few more times but eventually stopped. I wasn’t responding

“I’m sorry.” His voice whispered contrition.

I couldn’t be bothered, and let my self sink deep into my sleep.

By the time I batted my eyelids open, it was already late afternoon.

I got up and went down to Summer’s bedroom. That was when I saw a middle-aged lady in the living room.

Her name was Flora, the new caregiver Ashton hired. She greeted me affably and went back to her task.

Ashton had hired her to take care of Summer.

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