My best friend is marrying my husband novel Chapter 9

“Enough.” Stephen cut the butler off with a wave of his hand. “Do as I said.”

A complicated emotion flickered in the butler’s eyes, but in the end she bowed deeply. “Yes, sir.”

Stephen no longer looked at her. He turned and walked to the passenger side. The moment he opened the door, Julia was

about to step out when he swept her up in his arms.

“Stephen… Julia’s cheeks flushed pink as she pushed lightly against his chest. “Put me down. I can walk on my own.”

“Your injury just healed. Be careful.” His tone was gentle, yet his arms didn’t give her a choice. He carried her through the

front doors, down the hallway, and into the living room.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling across the polished floor in warm patches. Julia nestled

slightly against him, her eyes wandering curiously around the room.

The living room was cozy. Beige linen curtains hung half–drawn, filtering the sunlight into soft golden streaks across the

hardwood floor.

A few pastel–colored cushions were scattered over the sofa. On the coffee table sat a thriving pothos, its vines cascading

nearly to the floor.

“I didn’t know you had another house here,” Julia said softly.

Stephen’s steps faltered for the slightest second. He gently set her on the sofa and avoided her gaze. “It’s been vacant. I

never thought to use it.”

“It feels… lived in,” Julia said, leaning back into the cushions and letting her gaze sweep the room again. “Like someone

poured their soul into the floorboards.”

Stephen froze. His eyes drifted, helplessly pulled toward the familiar items he had once walked past without thinking.

The beige linen curtains…

He remembered Maria, heavily pregnant and glowing with a stubborn light, dragging him through Chelsea’s textile

district until she found this exact shade of ‘Honey–light‘ linen.

She said linen felt softest, and when sunlight passed through, the whole home would feel dipped in warm honey.

The pale yellow cushion….

Maria had sewn it by hand in her third trimester when she couldn’t sleep because her feet were too swollen. She had sat right there on the sofa, stitching slowly while humming lullabies.

She had said. “Stephen, after our baby is born, the three of us will curl up on this sofa. I’ll feed the baby, and you can

Chapter 9

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review your files. Wouldn’t that be perfect?”

And the watercolor painting on the wall… Three silhouettes, two adults holding the little hand of a child. The backdrop

was this garden.

Maria had spent a full month painting it for their daughter’s third birthday. Every inch of the house was filled with six

years of Maria’s devotion.

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