Her heels echoed sharply against the polished marble floors as she hurried through Mrs. Dawson's grand house, her heart pounding in her chest. The house was even more labyrinthine than she remembered, each turn and hallway seemingly leading her farther away from the garden. She hadn't realized just how vast the estate was until now, when all she wanted was to find a moment of peace outside.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of navigating through the sprawling mansion, Rose spotted the large French doors that led to the garden. She pushed them open with a force that betrayed her desperation, and a gust of cold wind immediately greeted her, stinging her cheeks and whipping her hair back from her face. The sharpness of the air made her gasp.

She hurried down the stone steps and onto the path that led to the fountain, the centerpiece of the garden that had always been her refuge. As she walked, memories flooded back—memories of the days she had spent working here, tending to the flowers, trimming the hedges, and arranging the garden under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dawson. She remembered how she had first noticed Jack, how he had lingered in the garden, sketchbook in hand, capturing the beauty of the place on paper.

Back then, she had been cautious, unsure of herself and of him. She had kept her distance, observing him from afar, not realizing that with each glance, each stolen moment, she was beginning to fall in love. It had been in this very garden, by this very fountain, that she had first allowed herself to imagine a life with him, a life that had once seemed so impossibly out of reach.

Now, they were married with a child, and despite everything they had faced, she was proud of the life they had built together. But as she reached the fountain and sat down on its edge, the pride she felt was overshadowed by the weight of Jack's mother's words. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to shield herself from the cold and the pain that gnawed at her insides.

"Well, you have a lot of nerve." Margaret Dawson snapped at Rose, her eyes burning against her skin.

Rose felt a knot forming in her stomach, a chill creeping down her spine as she met the older woman's eyes. "What do you mean by that?" she asked quietly, though she already sensed the venom behind the words.

Jack's mother's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Don't play innocent," she spat, her voice rising with every word. "You know exactly what I mean. You come here, waltzing into into this home with a child in your arms, after you've destroyed everything—destroyed our family's legacy, stolen my son for his money, and now you dare to show your face here? It's a disgrace!"

"Mother, that's enough," Jack interrupted, his voice hard and unyielding as he stepped forward to place himself between Rose and the verbal onslaught. His eyes flashed with anger, a stark contrast to the calm resolve he had shown earlier. "You need to watch your tongue. I married Rose because I love her."

But his mother wasn't finished. Her face twisted with disdain, she threw her hands up in a dramatic gesture of frustration. "Amelia loved you," she shot back, her voice cracking with emotion. "She was supposed to be your wife, the mother of your children. And now you come home with this—this harlot and a child who is probably not even yours!"

Rose gasped, the accusation hitting her like a physical blow. She could hardly believe the words she was hearing, the blatant cruelty in them. The room seemed to spin for a moment, but before she could respond, Jack's voice cut through the fog of her shock.

"Timothy is my child," Jack stated firmly, his voice steady but laced with barely controlled rage.

His mother scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "There's no way to know that for sure. She could have gotten pregnant by anyone and claimed it was yours just to secure money. I know her type—"

"Mother, have you even looked at him?" Jack's voice was rising now, the anger he had tried so hard to keep in check finally breaking through. He took a step closer, his face inches from hers. "Have you even looked at Timothy? How much he looks like me?"

His mother's eyes narrowed, her lips pursing in a tight line. "I don't need to look at the child of a prostitute," she sneered, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Enough!" The sudden sharp crack of Mrs. Dawson's cane striking the floor startled everyone in the room. The elderly matriarch's voice rang out with a commanding authority that immediately silenced the escalating argument. She fixed her daughter-in-law with a glare that could have melted stone, "I will not condone this kind of language in my house," Mrs. Dawson declared, her voice firm and unyielding. Her sharp eyes bore into Jack's mother, who visibly recoiled under the intensity of her gaze. "You have overstepped your bounds, Margaret. If you cannot show them the respect they deserve, then I suggest you leave this house immediately."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the echo of Mrs. Dawson's words hanging in the air. Jack's mother, her face flushed with both anger and humiliation, stood frozen for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to protest but couldn't find the words. Finally, she turned on her heel, her head held high, and stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the long corridor.

Cecilia, who had remained silent through the entire exchange, looked between Jack and her grandmother with a mix of shock and something like guilt. But before she could say anything, she too turned and hurried after her mother,

Jack, who was now standing next to Rose and Timothy in an overly protective manner, glanced at his mother one last time.

"You will never see us again, mother. I will sell all my shares and parts I own of the company. We will leave."

"Don't come running back to us when you realize you've made a mistake, son."

"Don't worry. I won't."

The two women then disappeared around the corner, the sound of the door opening and closing, echoing in the back. Without another word, Rose turned and quickly made her way out of the room. Jack called behind her, but she did not listen.

It was then that she heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path behind her. She turned, expecting to see Jack, but instead, it was Mrs. Dawson, her face etched with concern and understanding. The older woman moved slowly, her cane tapping lightly against the ground as she approached.

"Rose," Mrs. Dawson said gently, her voice carrying the weight of years and wisdom. "May I join you?"

Rose nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She watched as Mrs. Dawson settled herself on the edge of the fountain beside her, her sharp eyes taking in the garden, the fountain, and finally, Rose herself.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, and the fountain continued its steady, soothing flow. Timothy, sensing the quiet tension, settled back into Rose's arms, his small head resting against her shoulder.

"Do you know why I love this garden so much?" Mrs. Dawson finally asked, her voice soft and reflective.

Rose shook her head, not trusting herself to speak without her voice breaking.

"It's because it's a place where things grow," Mrs. Dawson continued. "Even when it's cold, even when the world outside is harsh, life still finds a way here. It's resilient, just like you, Rose."

Rose looked at her, surprised by the words.

Mrs. Dawson reached out, placing a gentle hand on Rose's arm. "I know what Margaret said hurt you, and I won't pretend that it didn't. But you must understand, she's angry because she sees how much Jack loves you—how much he's willing to give up to be with you. It frightens her."

Rose blinked, trying to process the words. "But why? Why can't she see that I love him too? That I'd never… I'd never use him for his money or his status. I just want to be with him, to make a life together."

Mrs. Dawson nodded, her expression kind. "She's blind to that because she's scared. Scared of losing the son she's always controlled, always had a say over. You represent everything she can't control, and that terrifies her."

Rose felt the tears she had been holding back finally spill over, and she quickly brushed them away, embarrassed. "I just… I just want to be enough for him," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mrs. Dawson's grip on her arm tightened, reassuring. "You are enough, Rose. More than enough. Jack sees that, and so do I. You've been through so much, and you've come out stronger for it. Don't let anyone—anyone—make you doubt your worth. Not even his mother." Mrs. Dawson then smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Spend tomorrow with Jack," she said, her tone lighter now. "Enjoy each other's company. I have a good maid who can look after Timothy as well as myself, of course—he'll be in good hands."

Rose hesitated, her protective instincts flaring up. "Are you sure? I don't want to impose."

"Not at all," Mrs. Dawson replied, waving away her concerns. "It'll be my pleasure. I still have a nursery upstairs where he can sleep and play. It'll give you and Jack some time to yourselves. You deserve it."

Rose bit her lip, weighing her options. But as she looked into Mrs. Dawson's kind, wise eyes, she felt herself relax. "Alright," she finally agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you."

"Good," Mrs. Dawson said, patting her hand. "Now, why don't you come inside? It's getting cold, and we can't have you catching a chill, can we?"

…..

The next morning dawned crisp and clear, and after a flurry of activity getting Timothy settled with Mrs. Dawson, Jack and Rose found themselves with an entire day to themselves. The quiet of the apartment felt strangely empty without their little boy's presence, and Rose found herself glancing at the clock more than once, counting down the hours until she could see him again. It was an unfamiliar freedom, a space where the absence of their child created both a sense of liberation and an unexpected emptiness.

Jack noticed the small frown lines between Rose's brows as they stepped out onto the street. He took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. "You okay?"

Rose looked up at him, her expression softening. "I'm just not used to being without him. It's strange, and I keep thinking about him."

"I know," Jack said, his voice gentle. "It's going to take a little getting used to. But we have the whole day ahead of us. Let's make the most of it."

Rose nodded, her resolve firming. She took a deep breath, letting the crisp Boston air fill her lungs. "Where to first?"

Jack grinned, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "I was thinking we could visit the museum. It's been ages since we've gone, and I'd love to show you some of the new exhibits. Plus, it's a nice, quiet spot. We won't run into anyone we know."

Rose's eyes lit up at the suggestion. The museum had always been a special place for him, a retreat from the world where he could lose themselves in art and each other. "That sounds perfect," she agreed, squeezing his hand in return. "Lead the way."

Inside, the museum was a quiet sanctuary, the sounds of the bustling city left behind as they wandered through the galleries. Jack led the way, his hand lightly holding hers as he guided her through the exhibits. His passion for art was evident in the way he spoke, his voice reverent as he explained the history and significance of the pieces they saw.

"Look at this one," Jack said, stopping in front of a painting. His eyes lit up with passion as he began to explain the details. "This is a classic example of Impressionism. The artist uses light and color to convey the feeling of the moment rather than precise details."

Rose listened intently, her gaze shifting between the painting and Jack. She could see the love he had for art in the way his eyes danced with excitement, how his hands gestured animatedly as he spoke.

As they continued through the museum, Jack's explanations became a journey through art history, each piece sparking a new story or memory. Rose found herself swept up in his passion, her earlier concerns melting away as she reveled in the beauty of the paintings and the joy of being with Jack.

They paused in front of a large, abstract piece that Jack found particularly intriguing. "This one is modern and a bit avant-garde," he said, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "It challenges the viewer to think beyond traditional forms and interpretations."

Rose studied the painting, its chaotic swirls and vibrant colors a stark contrast to the more classical works they had seen earlier. She smiled, leaning closer to Jack. "I love seeing you like this, so passionate and engaged."

As the day faded into the night, Jack and Rose stumbled through the door of their apartment, still laughing at a joke neither of them could quite remember. The night air had left them both with a pleasant, tipsy warmth, and the thrill of their night out, just the two of them, had left them feeling like the young lovers they once were.

"Shh," Rose giggled, holding a finger to her lips as they fumbled with the keys. "We don't want to wake anyone up."

Jack laughed along with her, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "Rose, there's no one here to wake up," he reminded her, pushing the door open and pulling her inside. "It's just us."

That realization seemed to hang in the air as they crossed the threshold. For the first time in over a year, they were completely alone. No baby monitor humming softly in the background, no soft cries to wake them in the night. Just silence and the echo of their laughter filling the cozy apartment.

Jack grinned at her, a playful, boyish grin that made Rose's heart flutter. "I think we might have had one too many drinks tonight," he said, his voice low and teasing.

"Maybe," Rose agreed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"How about one last drink before we call it a night?"

"One last drink."

While Jack was occupied, Rose slipped away quietly, her heart beating a little faster as she made her way to the bedroom. She hadn't planned this, hadn't even thought about it until now, but the night had stirred something in her—a longing she hadn't felt in a long time.

In the bedroom, she took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the dressing gown she had tucked away in the back of the dresser. It was a sheer, delicate thing, the soft fabric translucent in the dim light. As she undressed herself completely and slipped it on, she felt a wave of vulnerability, but also a thrill of anticipation. Despite their intimate kisses and sleeping next to each other, they had not touched each other in over a year. Rose, for she had sold her body to strange men, did not dare to think he'd want her in that way again. But over the last two weeks, she had seen his glances and she craved his body more than ever.

With one last steadying breath, she moved to the doorway, leaning against the frame as she watched Jack, who was just finishing up with the scotch. The light from the lamp on the side table cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the angles and curves she knew so well.

"Jack," she called softly.

He turned, the smile still lingering on his lips, but the moment his eyes fell on her, the smile faded, replaced by something deeper, something more primal. His breath hitched as he took her in, his eyes wide, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with unspoken desire, the weight of the night settling around them. Jack set the glasses down carefully, never taking his eyes off her, as if afraid she might disappear if he looked away.

"My god, Rose." He breathed, still not moving.

She couldn't help but chuckle and swirl the loose waistband in the air before moving towards him. Her naked body was clearly visible underneath the chiffon.

"I…" Rose started, her voice now slightly trembling, "I know I have done things… things that aren't desirable. I can understand it might have made me undesirable. Strangers have touched me, I touched them."

"No, no, no," Jack interrupted before kissing her gently, "None of those things matter to me, Rose. What happened to you doesn't define you. I love you and God," He looked her up and down once again, "You standing here like this. You have no idea what is going through my head right now."

Taking a step back Rose whispered: "Then show me what's going through your head right now."

Jack's response was a low, rumbling "all right" as he scooped her up into his arms, eliciting a surprised laugh from Rose as he carried her toward the bedroom. He laid her down gently, kissing her lips, then moving down to her neck. His hands then untied her robe, exposing her breasts. It felt as if he had returned home as he traced down ever curve and line of her body. She still felt the same, smelled the same, tasted the same.

Heavy breathing and passionate moans filled the room as they moved together. To Rose, it almost felt ecstatic to feel loved and not only used to fulfil a strange man's lustful desires. His body felt like home too.

…

Light peaked through the curtains, leaving a soft line on Rose's back as she lay on top of him.

"It's almost noon, Jack. Our son is waiting for us and you have to go to the office."

"You're right." Jack sighed as he tucked a curl behind her ears, "but this will be continued."

It did not take long for the door to open after they rang the bell. The housemaid opened it, yet she looked at them with a puzzled expression, her brows furrowing in confusion.

"Mr. Dawson, Mrs. Dawson," she said, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "What are you doing here?"

Jack exchanged a brief glance with Rose, his brow creasing slightly. "We're here to pick up Timothy," he replied, his tone casual. "He was only supposed to stay for the night."

The maid's face suddenly paled, her eyes widening in shock. "But… Mr. Dawson, Timothy was picked up about an hour ago."

Jack's expression hardened. "Picked up? By whom?"

"By… by your brother, sir," the maid stammered, her voice wavering as she took a step back, as if bracing herself for the storm that was about to break.