Page 2 of He couldn’t recognize me after my face was disfigured by the fire

I kept my head down and said, "Yes, she's four years old. She just started kindergarten this past Christmas."

The Christmas Esther was born, I fled abroad, and didn't register our marriage until a year later.

Actually, Esther is already five years old.

As soon as I finished speaking, someone suddenly wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me out from under Thomas's umbrella and into a familiar embrace.

"Daddy!" Esther looked up with her little face, calling out happily.

I froze, turning to meet Rafael Wright's smiling eyes.

Thomas frowned slightly, looking at me: "Your husband?"

I didn't answer. Rafael and I only had a marriage of convenience, just to make it easier for Esther to attend school.

But Rafael smiled and responded, nodding politely to Thomas: "Thank you for bringing my wife home. It's raining pretty harddrive carefully."

He handed me the umbrella, scooped up Esther with one arm, and wrapped his other arm around my shoulders as we turned toward the residential complex.

I didn't dare look back until we reached the apartment building.

The entrance was emptyThomas had already driven away.

The following days passed peacefully, and I never saw him again.

Until that day when I went to class and happened to run into Samuel fussing for food, acting cute in Thomas's arms: "Daddy, I want to eat your homemade spaghetti!"

Thomas had no choice but to get up and go to the kitchen.

Samuel pulled me along to follow.

When the stove ignited with a "pop" and the flames leaped up, my whole body went rigid. I instinctively crouched down, covering my ears tightly with both hands.

"Ms. Fields, what's wrong?" Samuel hugged me in panic.

I stared wide-eyed as the dancing flames in my vision seemed to transform into the inferno that had consumed everything that night.

The searing pain on my face, the fire on my body that wouldn't go out no matter how I tried to put it out... memories flooded back like a tide.

My throat tightened, and I almost screamed out loud.

Suddenly, the flames went out.

Thomas stood in front of me, his voice low and clear: "You're afraid of fire?"

He helped me sit down at the dining table.

In that moment, the figure who had rescued me from the fire overlapped with the man before me.

I shuddered violently, struggling to suppress the surging emotions, my voice hoarse: "I'm fine, I just need to rest for a moment."

He didn't leave, just stood there. Under his stern features, his deep gaze locked onto me: "Ms. Fields, have you experienced a fire? Post-traumatic stress disorder?"

My heart raced wildly, my breathing so rapid I could barely control it: "It was something from childhood, long past."

He paused, seeming to accept this explanation, and didn't press further.

A moment later, Thomas finished making the spaghetti.

Samuel stood on a little stool to add seasoning, and I got up to help.

Carrying two plates of spaghetti back, I unconsciously placed one plate in front of Thomas.

"Mr. Hamilton, thank you for letting me stay for dinner." I said politely, just wanting to finish the lesson and leave as quickly as possible.

But I didn't notice that Thomas's body stiffened slightly.

He looked at me quietly, his voice low and measured: "Ms. Fields, my spaghettiyou didn't add parsley to it, did you?"

I was stunned, looking down at the parsley flakes on my own plate of spaghetti.

I suddenly understoodI had forgotten to add it because I was used to his preferences. He didn't like anything added, especially parsley.

Thomas looked at me, his gaze profound.

I quickly explained: "Sorry, Mr. Hamilton, I was focused on Samuel's portion and mine, and overlooked yours. Do you eat parsley? I'll add some right away."

I smiled awkwardly, but my heart was already pounding frantically, afraid he might notice something unusual.

"No need," he said quietly, "coincidentally, I don't eat it."

He picked up his fork and gently tossed the spaghetti.

I quietly breathed a sigh of relief, keeping my head down and silently stirring my spaghetti, not daring to look at him again.