Chapter Two — The Warmth Before the Storm
That morning, the backyard of the Birlly residence moved gently, like a living painting. The servants walked back and forth, arranging the maple-wood table, shaking out the cream picnic cloth until it fell perfectly, placing baskets filled with warm bread, fresh fruit, and a thermos of Ellea's favorite herbal tea.
Everything was done with care—because today, the lady of the house wanted a small picnic.
From the second-floor study window, Jonathan stood frozen. The scene below made time crack, stopping for a breath.
Under a peach tree just beginning to bloom, Ellea stood in a pastel summer dress that swayed with the wind. Her swollen belly created a soft silhouette—a tender reminder that the miracle inside her had been growing for eight months now.
Jonathan almost forgot to breathe.
It felt like only yesterday she had shown him the pregnancy test with trembling hands. Now, their world was nearly full. Almost complete. And he feared ruining it with nothing more than a breath too heavy.
He closed his files and patted the table, as if it were a small ritual before returning to being a husband, not a head of the household or the owner of a luxury showroom. Then he headed downstairs, each step feeling as though it led to something warm.
As he stepped outside, a soft voice called him.
"Hubby!"
Ellea looked ready to do a little run—an old habit that refused to disappear despite her belly being as round as a full moon—but Jonathan raised his hand immediately.
"Don't move. I'll come to you."
His tone was gentle, but carried a command forged out of love.
He quickened his steps. The servants bowed and gave way. And when he reached Ellea, Jonathan wrapped his arms around her carefully, as if holding something impossibly fragile.
His arms circled her waist from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. The peach scent from her hair mingled with the morning grass, warming his chest—almost painfully so.
"You look beautiful today," he whispered, his lips brushing her neck.
Ellea giggled softly. "You say that every day."
"Because it's true every day."
His hand stroked her belly lightly, as if afraid a touch too firm would hurt her. "Daddy's right here," he murmured, speaking to two souls at once.
Ellea closed her eyes. For a moment, the world felt too soft to touch.
---
They sat on the picnic blanket. Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, scattering broken shadows across the cloth. Jonathan sliced fruit for Ellea, while Ellea spread jam on bread for him.
"You need to eat more," Jonathan said, placing a plate of fruit on her lap.
Ellea puffed her cheeks slightly. "I eat all the time, Hubby. You know that."
"That's the problem," he replied, staring at her. "You don't stay still. You're too active. Your belly—"
Ellea chuckled. "I get bored staying in the room."
"You're eight months pregnant, not training for the military."
"I'm just walking. Not running."
"Still."
Ellea sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm fine, Hubby. Trust me."
Jonathan didn't answer. He simply stroked her arm gently, as though touch could soothe the knots inside his heart.
The breeze ruffled Ellea's hair. Jonathan tucked it behind her ear and watched her for a long—too long—moment, until Ellea noticed.
"Hubby…" her voice softened. "Can I ask for something?"
"Tell me first," Jonathan said, pulling her closer.
Ellea played with her fingers—her habit when she was nervous. Jonathan leaned in.
"What do you want, love?"
Ellea drew a breath, eyes dropping. "Can I… ride a horse?"
And she immediately shut her eyes, too afraid to see his face.
Jonathan closed his, rubbing the back of his neck with a frustration woven tightly with love.
"My love… you know that's dangerous," he said. "Right now? In your condition?"
Ellea pouted. "Please… just for a little while."
"No." His answer came quick, firm, final.
Ellea sulked in a way she knew had no effect.
Jonathan leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Anything else. But not that."
---
A few days later—on a night that should have been quiet.
Jonathan walked quickly down the hall, passing one of the servants. The servant bowed.
"If Madam looks for me, tell her I've stepped out," Jonathan whispered.
The servant nodded without asking questions.
But before Jonathan could move again, he stopped.
At the top of the staircase, Ellea stood. Her hair loose, her expression blank—a combination that told Jonathan immediately: she had heard everything.
Her eyes widened like a child catching her father hiding candy.
"Hubby…" Her voice cracked into something close to a whine.
Jonathan cupped her face, resigned. "Love… don't start."
Ellea slipped beside him, hugging his arm tightly.
"Hubby, I just want to ride for a moment. One lap. Just one…"
She didn't care that they were in the hallway. Didn't care that other servants might see. Ellea clung to him like a sticker—whining, coaxing, insisting with that unbearably sweet face.
Jonathan exhaled long. "No."
"Hubby—"
"No."
"Hubby…" She hugged his waist, tiptoed, rested her chin on his shoulder, swaying him gently.
Jonathan shut his eyes. "Ellea… Love… if you keep doing this, I— I might lose my mind."
Ellea finally stopped, hugging him more calmly. "I just want to feel… normal again."
That made Jonathan fall silent. Hurt. Softened. And still unmoving.
That night, Ellea eventually fell asleep in his arms—still clutching his arm tightly, as if afraid he might disappear.
Jonathan remained awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of her request—so simple on the surface, yet carrying a thousand hidden dangers.
He stroked her hair, bending down to kiss her forehead.
"I won't put you at risk," he whispered to his sleeping wife.
"Not you. Not our child."