The Secret I Dare Not Tell

Isabella's POV

I sat on the sofa in Caspar Company's lobby, holding the coffee I'd just bought for him. As the female colleagues from the front desk passed by, they all cast envious glances my way.

"Isabella is so thoughtful, coming to pick up Caspar from work every day."

"I know, right? They have such a great relationship. When will I ever have a boyfriend like that?"

I smiled politely at them, but inside I felt hollow. If they knew the real reason I came here—not out of thoughtfulness, but because I was afraid of being alone at home with my thoughts—would they still say the same thing?

In the corner of the lobby, a young couple was coaxing a little girl who looked about five or six years old.

"Daddy, I want ice cream!" The little girl tugged at the man's sleeve, her eyes full of expectation.

"But it's winter now, you'll catch a cold." The father shook his head gently.

"But I really want it!" The little girl started acting coquettish, her voice tinged with tears.

I thought the father would continue to refuse—after all, snow was falling outside and the temperature was near freezing. But the mother stood up and patted the father's shoulder: "Forget it, let's just buy one. If the child wants it, let's get it for her."

Ten minutes later, the three of them returned. The little girl was happily licking her strawberry ice cream, not forgetting to share a taste with her parents.

"Is it sweet?"

"Sweet!"

"Then Mommy and Daddy should try some too."

Watching their harmonious scene, something suddenly struck my heart hard.

This is what it feels like to be loved unconditionally.

Memories flooded back like a tide.

That winter when I was five, I had just been adopted by the Ross couple. They were very good to me then—Margaret would buy me pretty little dresses, and Robert would take me to the park on weekends. I remember once, just like that little girl, I asked for ice cream on a snowy day.

"Mommy, I want ice cream." I timidly tugged at Margaret's hand.

"On such a cold day?" She was stunned at first, then smiled gently, "Alright, let's go buy some."

That day we bought a vanilla ice cream. I took a small bite, then handed it to Margaret: "Mommy, you eat some too."

"So sweet." She touched my head, "My Isabella is so thoughtful."

That was the happiest time of my life. I thought I finally had a real home, real parents who loved me.

Then Audrey was born.

I'll never forget that afternoon when I was eight. Margaret held baby Audrey in her arms, with a light in her eyes I'd never seen before.

"She's my real daughter." Margaret gently caressed Audrey's little face, her voice full of satisfaction, "My own flesh and blood."

I stood at the maternity room door, feeling like the whole world had gone quiet.

In that moment I understood—all those years of affection were just a substitute while they waited for their own child to arrive.

The changes that followed came so fast I couldn't keep up.

My room—that pink one with unicorn stickers—was converted into Audrey's stuffed animal storage room. My bed, my desk, all my things were moved to a converted storage room in the basement.

"Isabella, you're grown up now, you should learn to be independent." Robert stood at the storage room door, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather, "And you need to understand, we took you in, you should be grateful and not worry us."

Took in.

Not adopted, not loved—took in.

Like taking in a stray cat. But even so, I didn't want to go back to that orphanage where I had to fight for food.

From then on, I learned to read faces, learned to hide my needs, learned to pretend everything was fine. Because whenever I showed the slightest dissatisfaction or grievance, Robert would say: "We gave you a home, what more do you want? Ungrateful children never come to a good end."

"Isabella?"

A familiar voice pulled me back from my memories. I looked up to see Caspar standing by the elevator doors, concern written on his face.

"You look a little tired." He came over and sat beside me, reaching out to gently touch my cheek.

I reflexively forced a smile: "I just missed you."

This was my standard answer. No matter what happened, no matter how exhausted or painful I felt, I would always say "I just missed you." Because Robert's words still echoed in my ears—ungrateful people never come to a good end.

But Caspar was different.

He would answer my calls at 2 AM just because I said I couldn't sleep. He would cook my favorite pasta himself when I lost my appetite. He would hold me when I was down and say: "Bella, you deserve all the good things in the world."

Most importantly, he never asked me to be grateful. He loved me like those parents loved that little girl who wanted ice cream—unconditionally, expecting nothing in return.

He stood up and took my hand: "You're not nervous about us getting married soon, are you?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Marriage.

What did this word mean to me? Did it mean I could finally have a real home? Did it mean I could finally stop pretending, stop hiding my vulnerabilities?

"Tomorrow we'll go see Grandpa and Grandma, tell them the good news." Caspar's eyes sparkled with excitement, "They've been urging us to get married."

"Okay." I gripped his hand tightly, "We'll go tomorrow."

As we walked out of the office building, I looked back at that corner. The family of three had already left, but that warm feeling of being loved was still glowing quietly in my heart.

Someday, I would have that kind of love too.

Someday, I would become the most important person in someone's life.

Not a substitute.