Mother’s birthday

"Anyway, I brought some flowers," Sia said, her voice warm with sincerity. "It's your mom's birthday. Even though it's been years, I still haven't forgotten." She smiled as she extended the bouquet toward him.

Ford's eyes widened slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected that. His gaze flickered from her face to the flowers in her hands.

"You remembered," he murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and something unspoken. "Wow. Nice."

But the moment was fleeting. His expression quickly shifted back to indifference, and without another word, he turned toward his car.

"Well, I need to go now. I'll see you later," he said dismissively, stepping inside without so much as a glance back.

Sia stood frozen in place, watching in stunned silence as the car door shut behind him. The rejection stung more than she expected. Had she said something wrong? Her grip tightened around the bouquet as she watched the vehicle pull away, a sinking feeling settling in her chest.

Inside the car, Ford furrowed his brows, his thoughts tangled in a web of emotions. Against his better judgment, he glanced through the rear window. Sia was still standing there, motionless, clutching the flowers, her expression unreadable.

He forced himself to look away. He had no intention of getting tangled up with her again. Sia was part of a past he had buried, and he wasn't about to let old memories resurface.

But no matter how much he tried to ignore it, something about the sight of her standing there, holding those flowers, gnawed at him. She had remembered his mother's birthday. That alone was unexpected.

Sia had always shared a close bond with his mother before she passed, and the fact that she still remembered—when not even his father did—was unsettling.

"Stop the car," Ford said suddenly, his voice calm but firm.

The driver responded instantly, bringing the vehicle to a smooth halt.

Meanwhile, Sia stood rooted to the spot, unable to process what had just happened. She had known winning Ford over wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't expected such coldness.

Still, she wasn't backing down.

She was back.

And she was back for him.

Disheartened by his reaction, Sia slowly lowered her hands, the bouquet drooping as her head tilted downward. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. Just as she was about to turn away and leave, his voice broke through the silence.

"Aren't you coming?" Ford called out.

His face remained unreadable, his tone strict and impassive, as if he were merely extending an obligation rather than an invitation.

For a moment, she stood frozen, processing his words. Then, not caring about his cold demeanor, she broke into a smile and hurried toward the car. Sliding inside, she settled into the seat beside him, her heart oddly lighter.

Ford shook his head slightly, exhaling in quiet disbelief. He still couldn't fathom why he had stopped the car for her. It went against his better judgment. But as his thoughts drifted to his mother, a calmness settled over him. Maybe that was why.

The car ride to the columbarium was steeped in silence. Ford stared out the window, lost in thought, his expression unreadable.

Sia, on the other hand, was restless. She tried repeatedly to lighten the mood, throwing in playful remarks, even nudging him a few times. But he remained unmoved, his mood unyielding.

"Talk to me. I'm bored," she finally whined, her voice laced with exaggerated frustration. She reached for his hand, giving him a playful pout as she held it.

Ford finally turned to her, his gaze cool and unwavering. "Sia, I would appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself," he said evenly, his voice calm but firm. He gently pulled his hand away from hers.

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, the driver's voice interrupted.

"We've arrived, sir."

Ford wasted no time. "Don't forget to bring the flowers and the gifts along," he instructed, his voice carrying a note of finality.

"Yes, sir," the driver responded promptly.

Without another glance in Sia's direction, Ford pushed the door open and stepped out.

Sia blinked in mild disbelief. "Wait for me!" she called out, quickly scrambling after him.

She didn't care how distant or indifferent he wanted to act toward her.

For now, all that mattered was that she was here.

And she was sure—sooner or later—he would soften.

As long as she stayed by his side.

Sia hurried to catch up with him. "You really need to stop ignoring me, you know," she muttered, but Ford gave no reaction.

Without a word, he stopped and turned, taking the flowers and gifts from his driver before striding ahead to pay his respects. Shaking her head at his silence, Sia quickly followed.

As they reached the columbarium, Ford's steps faltered. His gaze landed on two familiar figures standing before his mother's resting place—his father and his new wife, their heads bowed in solemn reflection.

When the woman lifted her eyes and met his gaze, a cunning smile played on her lips.

A wave of anger and irritation surged through him.

Moving toward them in a fit of rage, Ford thundered angrily, "What is she doing here?" His voice boomed through the air, thick with hostility. His palms had already balled into fists as he struggled to suppress the fury rising within him. The mere sight of Frederick's mother sent a wave of irritation coursing through his veins, rekindling the bitterness he had harbored for years.

He felt they had disrespected his mother's memory, treating it with a carelessness he couldn't overlook. Mr. Lugard—Ford's father—heard his son's voice and turned around immediately. His eyes met Ford's burning glare, which was fixed squarely on both him and the woman beside him.

Shocked, yet attempting to mask his unease, Mr. Lugard forced a smile. "You're here?" he asked, though his mind was already racing, trying to decipher what had triggered his son's fury this time.

Ford, however, was in no mood for pleasantries. His glare sharpened. "You still haven't answered my question. What the hell are you doing here—especially with her?" His voice dripped with contempt, and he didn't spare the woman so much as a glance.

Mr. Lugard sighed, his expression unreadable. "Calm down, Ford. Don't I have the right to visit your mother's grave? Or have you forgotten that she was once my wife?" His words were measured, but there was a quiet challenge in them.

A dry, humorless smile curved Ford's lips. "I'm glad you said she was once your wife. You actually remembered her this year—I'm surprised. Because last year, I'm quite sure you forgot she even existed." His voice was laced with sarcasm, his smirk underscoring the resentment he felt.

Mr. Lugard turned his head away, guilt flickering in his eyes. He knew Ford was right—he hadn't visited last year. But he had his reasons. Reasons that, in that moment, felt pointless to explain. Ford was already seething, and no excuse would be enough to quell his anger.

"I can endure anything you choose to do. But your new wife needs to learn boundaries—especially when it comes to anything concerning me or my mother." With that, Ford stepped forward, his voice firm and unwavering.

Seeing his son approach, Mr. Lugard instinctively moved aside, granting him space to pay his respects.

As Ford advanced, his gaze fell upon an unexpected presence—Sia. His steps faltered slightly, surprise flickering across his features. Sia immediately lowered her head in a respectful greeting. Ford's sharp eyes shifted to his father's wife, scrutinizing her from head to toe before pointedly looking away, his expression cold and indifferent.

Frederick's mother was taken aback by Ford's blatant disregard. She hadn't expected such outright rudeness and found herself wondering who this woman was.

"I think it's best we leave," Mr. Lugard murmured under his breath, sensing the tension thickening in the air.

Without protest, his wife gave a small nod and followed him, her face tight with unspoken words.

Sia watched them retreat, her gaze lingering until they disappeared from sight. Only then did she turn back to Ford, who stood motionless, his eyes locked onto his mother's ashes. His expression was unreadable, but his clenched jaw and rigid stance spoke volumes.

His gaze dropped to the fresh bouquet of flowers his father had left behind. His lips curled in disdain. Without hesitation, he reached down, snatched them up, and hurled them to the ground. His shoe came down hard, crushing the delicate petals beneath his weight.

It wasn't the act of his father paying respects that angered him—it was the presence of that woman. She had no right to be involved.

Sia observed him silently, surprise flickering in her eyes. Yet beneath that, there was admiration. She loved how bold, how unyielding he had become.

"I'm here, Mom," Ford murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Carefully, he knelt and placed the flowers and small gifts he had brought for her beside the urn, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

Sia hesitated before stepping forward. Bending down, she placed her own offering beside his.

She could see the change in him—the shift in his mood, the vulnerability peeking through the cracks of his anger. A part of her ached to comfort him, to wrap her arms around him and remind him that he wasn't alone. But she hesitated, fearing that any display of affection might push him further away.

He had already been distant earlier, his demeanor guarded.

Reluctantly, she changed her mind.

Instead, she simply stood beside him, offering silent support in the only way she could.

The moment her eyes landed on his open palm, hesitation flickered across Sia's face. But instinct overpowered doubt. Gently, she slipped her hand into his, her fingers lacing through his as if offering silent reassurance.

Ford stiffened at the unexpected contact. His first instinct was to pull away, to shield himself from the vulnerability creeping in. But as the warmth of her touch seeped into his skin, he hesitated. Deep down, he knew—no matter how much he tried to suppress it—that he needed comfort.