My hands trembled violently, my body overcome with emotion. The thermos slipped from my grasp, crashing onto the floor with a deafening clang. The sound sliced through the silence of the corridor like a knife.
Inside, Tristan’s expression shifted. He shot to his feet, striding toward the door. The moment he saw me, panic flashed in his eyes.
"Wife… why are you here? Did you hear what we just said?"
I had already wiped my tears away. My fingers curled tightly together to suppress the shaking. Lowering my gaze to the spilled chicken soup pooling on the cold tiles, I let out a sigh of regret.
"What could I have heard?" I smiled faintly. "My hands started shaking again the moment I got here, and I knocked over the thermos. Such a shame… I spent all morning making that soup."
Tristan glanced at my trembling hands and seemed to relax. He took them on his own, his grip was warm and reassuring—an illusion of tenderness.
"It’s my fault," he murmured, his voice filled with guilt. "I failed to protect you, and now you suffer from this hand tremor. From now on, let the servants handle these things. My wife only needs to enjoy life."
He spoke as if he cherished me. As if he cared.