I gazed into his eyes, searching for a hint of truth, and asked, "Clyde, so you married me because of Betty and her baby? In these ten years, did you ever love me? Were you ever moved by me, even a little?"
Clyde didn’t respond immediately. He sat in silence, as though seriously contemplating my question.
Then, from the back seat, Betty—eyes closed, voice faint as if in a dream—murmured, "Clyde, don’t worry. Once I give birth, I’ll disappear from your world forever."
Her words seemed to pierce him. Clyde’s attention shifted entirely to Betty, his gaze filled with concern and tenderness.
When he finally turned back to me, his voice was measured but distant.
"It’s been ten years, Angela. It’s not like there were no feelings at all. But what we have feels more like family. Marrying you gives me peace of mind."
"Being with Betty feels like love," Clyde said.
I stared at him in silence, not uttering a word. If that’s the case, I decided, let them have their wedding.
After Betty was sent to the emergency room, the doctor confirmed she was fine. I took one last look at Clyde, turned away, and asked the driver to take me back to the villa.