"I love you Klas"

Part 15

Klas's pov:

In these recent days, a pervasive emptiness and the weight of depression settled within me, a palpable void left by Mickey's absence. While I acknowledged the necessity of the restraining order, I couldn't shake the constant ache of missing him. Willow's presence brought moments of happiness, yet there lingered a different kind of joy—a yearning for the companionship of my husband. Despite the tumultuous circumstances, the fact remained that Mickey was still my husband, and my love for him persisted.

Descending the stairs after a shower, I was greeted by the sight of Willow happily devouring scrambled eggs. "Morning," I greeted, joining her at the table. Inquiring about her readiness for school, she responded with giggles. My mother kindly offered to take her, a gesture I accepted with gratitude. The restraining order compelled Mickey to stay at Natalie's, leading me to choose my parents' home over our shared house.

I tended to Willow's morning routine, feeding her, ensuring she was showered and dressed for school. As I combed her hair, she innocently questioned, "Why won't papusha see me?" Sighing, I replied, "Because your daddy is busy." Attempting to soothe her worry, I added, "Don't worry, he'll come back," accompanied by a smile and a tender kiss on her nose. Handing her over to my mother, I bid them farewell as they ventured out.

Preparing for the day's work, I made a conscious effort to wear my wedding ring—an enduring symbol of a connection that transcended our present challenges. Despite the profound longing for Mickey, I recognized the imperative to forge ahead with life, embracing the responsibilities of work and the tentative steps toward a new normalcy.

After a four-hour stint at work, my assistant knocked on the door, and I granted her entry. "There's someone who wants to meet you, sir," she said, and I anticipated it might be Adrian. "If it's Adrian, no thanks," I replied, but she shook her head, revealing it was a woman named Lyubov. I sighed, agreeing to meet her as my assistant left. I pondered why Lyubov sought a meeting—perhaps to inquire about Mickey's whereabouts.

As Lyubov entered, I stood to greet her, trying to maintain a composed demeanor. We settled on the sofa, and I gently inquired, "What brings you here?" She sighed before confessing, "Actually, Mickey and I used to date. We got matching tattoos, and he promised me that anyone he'd be with afterward would be just a replacement because he truly loved me." Her words hit me, and my heart raced. Lyubov proceeded to reveal a tattoo on her hip, the word "Mine" etched in Mickey's unmistakable handwriting.

"I'm not saying this to hurt you, but Mickey is always mine, and I hope you realize that," she said with a hint of sadness. The revelation struck deep, and I grappled with the realization that I might have taken Mickey away from someone who had a significant history with him. But was I supposed to relinquish him for the sake of someone from his past? I loved Mickey too, and I couldn't undo the circumstances that brought us together.

As the weight of the situation settled, I stood, a mix of upset and sadness clouding my emotions. "I don't want to harm anyone, but please, I love him," she pleaded. Frustration building, I raised my voice, asserting, "He's my husband, and I'm not giving him up no matter what." Lyubov frowned, insisting, "But he's mine," prompting an outburst from me. I slapped her, declaring, "He used to be, but now he's all mine." Urging her to leave, she departed, visibly upset, leaving me to grapple with the complex emotions stirred by this unexpected revelation.

Returning home from work, I picked up Willow, acutely aware that my emotional state rendered me incapable of caring for her adequately. With a heavy heart, I entrusted her to a nanny's care for the time being. Deciding to confide in my mother, I knocked on her door, and she welcomed me in, engrossed in a book. Seated on the bed, I broached the difficult topic. "What should I do about Mickey?" I queried, a cloud of sadness shrouding my words.