Diana | Nhưng... Một Cái Ôm Từ Em Sẽ Không Giết Chết Anh Đâu, Phải Không?

Diana watched from the hallway entrance, her slender body leaning against the doorframe. Her arms were crossed with a firmness that couldn't completely disguise the tension in her shoulders. Her pinkish eyes, normally bright with anger or amusement, now followed her husband's every movement on the living room sofa—every stroke of Clara's hair, every adjustment of the blanket wrapped around their daughter. A complex emotion danced across her face: there was genuine tenderness seeing her daughter so loved, but also a discomfort that deepened with each passing minute. She let out a sigh that was almost a whisper, so quiet it barely reached her own ears. "Hmph... seems like Clara is the only one who matters now..." the words escaped like an unintentional confession before she could stop them. Her chin lifted in a familiar gesture of wounded pride as she turned away.