Chapter 70: Hannah

The evening air nipped at my cheeks as Noah and I walked in silence, our footsteps crunching softly on the frosted leaves and twigs. I pulled my jacket tighter, exhaling and watching the mist float away. I couldn't remember the last time we'd walked this trail through the woods surrounding the mansion. We'd frequented it early in our marriage—when everything felt new and exciting, before the cracks appeared. Simpler times.

My chest tightened at the memory. It had been ages, and the path was overgrown. I wondered why Noah chose this path now, but didn't ask. It wasn't worth it.

I didn't see the thick briar vine until the last second. With a startled cry, my foot caught, sending me sprawling. Bracing for impact, I squeezed my eyes shut—only to feel strong arms circle my waist, yanking me upright.

I gasped, my body stiffening at his nearness. His chest was pressed against my back, his hands steadying me. "Don't fall," he murmured.

My heart stuttered at the warmth radiating through our clothes, the deep rumble of his chest. This close, I could almost feel his heartbeat. He didn't let go immediately, and I didn't pull away. We stood there a moment, bathed in the pale yellow glow of the crescent moon. The illogical thought of turning to kiss him flashed through my mind—but no. I couldn't. I didn't want to.

"Thanks," I mumbled, pulling away.

"No problem."

A tense silence fell, punctuated only by our footsteps, an owl's hoot, and the rush of my blood. Eventually, Noah cleared his throat.

"You were… really good with the kids today," he remarked cautiously, yet conversationally, his gaze averted. "At the orphanage. I was surprised."

I snorted. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"A little."

I sighed. "It's not exactly a challenge to get along with children, Noah. Not if you actually put in some effort."

Immediately, I regretted my words, wondering if I'd been too harsh, too accusatory. I was protecting myself, being cruel, just as he'd done countless times.

To my surprise, Noah sighed and shook his head. "I know," he admitted. "Kids have never been my strong suit. I've never known how to act around them."

I tilted my head, studying his profile. This was the first time I'd heard him admit a shortcoming. I reached out and touched his forehead. He froze, instantly swatting my hand away. "What are you doing?"

I shrugged. "Checking to make sure you're okay," I teased, stepping over a sapling. "I've never heard you admit a shortcoming before, so I wanted to see if you're ill."

He was quiet for a moment, then huffed. We walked in silence before he spoke again.

"I don't know. For a long time, I thought it was because I'm a man—that nurturing comes more naturally to women. But watching you today… I don't think that's it."

I blinked, taken aback by his sincerity. He chuckled mirthlessly. "I think I just don't have that gene for playfulness and imagination. That's all."

A pang twisted in my chest at his resignation. Without thinking, I spoke.

"I was thinking about volunteering at the library soon. Reading to the kids." I watched him carefully. "Since you mentioned we should volunteer together, you should come."

He huffed. "I guess I did say that."

"Well? What do you think?"

He regarded me intently, something indecipherable in his emerald eyes. Finally, he nodded slowly. "I'll think about it."

We fell silent again, this time less tense. Then, he stopped.

"Do you want to be a mom?"

I inhaled sharply, my hand drifting toward my belly, where life had taken root. If only he knew what I'd lost, what I'd sworn never to lose again. But I stopped myself. He couldn't know, not before the divorce. Maybe not ever.

"Isn't that the whole point of our monthly intimacy nights?" I asked. "To produce an heir?"

He clenched his jaw. "I mean, do you want to be a mom? Outside of duty?"

I nodded. "I do."

"To my child?"

My heart stopped. Had he figured it out? Would he try to prevent the divorce? Maybe that's why I blurted out, harsher than intended, "No."

He flinched almost imperceptibly. He looked away, swallowing hard. My stomach sank, then I corrected myself. I hadn't hurt him. He never loved me; why would he care?

A long silence followed. We didn't move. Whatever candor we'd shared was gone. Perhaps for the better.

"We should get back," he finally said, turning and striding away without another word.