Chapter 11: His Child
After a week of shared meals, Cora had almost grown used to Julian’s company.
Strangely, he seemed to be getting used to it too.
What began as obligation had softened into quiet routine—he no longer waited for his grandmother’s reminders. Every evening after work, he came to the hospital on his own.
That day, he arrived early—too early for dinner—and through the glass window he spotted her.
Cora was standing in the garden, smiling faintly as she trimmed a camellia bloom.
It stopped him cold.
Since the day he met her, she had either been crying or staring blankly into space. He had never once seen her smile.
And now, with sunlight falling across her face, that gentle curve of her lips stirred something he couldn’t name.
Dina’s beauty had always been bold—meant to be noticed.
But Cora’s was quiet, like the flower she held: delicate, fragrant, lingering.
Cora turned to the nurses following her.
“This kind of camellia needs shade,” she said warmly. “Too much sunlight burns the leaves. They like humidity—if you care for them right, they’ll bloom every year.”
One nurse giggled. “Mrs. Watson knows so much about flowers!”
Cora smiled again. “My grandmother used to love gardening. I learned because… if the plants didn’t do well, my mother would…”
She stopped abruptly, shaking her head. “Never mind. You just learn these things after a while.”
Then came a ripple of voices behind her:
“Good afternoon, Mr. Watson!”
Cora stiffened. It wasn’t even mealtime yet—why was he here?
Julian walked up, his gaze landing on the camellia she’d just trimmed.
Something flickered in his eyes—something almost unreadable.
“You like flowers?” he said simply, then turned to the nearest aide. “Have fresh ones placed in her room every day.”
And without another word, he brushed past her.
Cora blinked. What was that supposed to mean?
After he left, one nurse whispered excitedly, “Mr. Watson is so good to you, Mrs. Watson!”
Cora gave a small, bitter smile.
Good to me? No. He was good to the child.
⸻
Later, her doctor came in cheerfully.
“Mrs. Watson, time for your daily checkup!”
Cora nodded and followed her back inside. She was used to the routine by now.
Julian, however, was seeing it for the first time.
When the rhythmic sound filled the room—soft, steady thumps through the monitor—Julian froze.
He turned toward the doctor. “What is that sound?”
The doctor smiled. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat. Strong, isn’t it? The child’s very healthy. All the care Mrs. Watson’s been getting is paying off.”
Cora’s chest tightened.
That sound—tiny, insistent, alive—sent something through her she couldn’t explain.
For the first time, she truly felt it: a connection.
There was a life growing inside her, slowly taking shape.
The child she hadn’t wanted now filled her with a strange mix of wonder and warmth.
Julian said nothing, but the light in his eyes gave him away.
Shock. Awe. Something dangerously close to joy.
My child.
The thought struck him so sharply it made his breath catch.
⸻
That evening at dinner, the ever-cold Mr. Watson seemed—different.
He broke the steak in half and, to everyone’s astonishment, placed a piece on Cora’s plate himself.
“Eat more. You’re too thin.”
The chefs exchanged stunned looks.
Mr. Watson, who had a well-known aversion to sharing utensils, was serving someone food?
Cora wanted to refuse—her stomach was still sensitive—but she didn’t dare.
She took a small bite and immediately felt queasy.
Julian noticed and replaced the plate with one of vegetables.
“Then eat these.”
She blinked, startled. What’s gotten into him?
Then she remembered his words from before and her chest sank.
He wasn’t being kind. He was being responsible—for his heir.
Still, she ate obediently, because she’d made her choice.
She would give birth to this child.
She would do it properly.
Julian watched her finish her vegetables, the corners of his lips curving faintly.
⸻
The next day, Madam Yoon arrived just in time for lunch.
Seeing Julian dutifully accompanying Cora, she nodded in satisfaction.
After the meal, the attending physician entered with a clipboard, ready to deliver the week’s report.