Chapter 3

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t belong in a home, it belonged in mausoleums, in places where the dead slept and the living feared to breathe too loudly.

I blinked against the morning light spilling through the curtains, my head heavy from a restless night. The sheets beneath me were smooth, untouched, as though I hadn’t moved all night. My body ached anyway, not from the bed, but from the weight of the memories pressing down on me.

I turned my face into the pillow and inhaled. No scent. No warmth. No trace of life. Just linen.

I wanted to pretend this wasn’t real, that yesterday had been a nightmare, that if I opened my eyes again, I’d be back in the small room that had been mine before all of this. That my brothers’ laughter would spill down the hallway, that my father’s voice would call my name.

But when I opened them, I was still here.

The bouquet lay crumpled on the dresser, its petals withered overnight as if mocking me. A broken crown for a bride who wasn’t wanted.

A knock rattled the door, sharp and polite all at once.

“Come in,” I said, my voice rough.

The same maid from last night entered, balancing a tray in her hands. Steam curled from the cup she carried, and the scent of coffee filled the air. She set the tray on the small table near the window, her eyes soft but guarded as they flicked toward me.

“Breakfast, ma’am.”

I nodded, forcing a thank you past my throat.

She hesitated, her hands folded in front of her apron. “Mr. Diego asked me to let you know he’ll be gone most of the day. He said if you need anything, you can tell me or the staff.”

My chest tightened at the mention of him, though I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t disappointed. I wasn’t relieved either. Just… suspended.

“Alright,” I murmured.

She gave a small bow and left.

I stared at the tray. Toast, eggs, fresh fruit, and coffee in porcelain so fine I was afraid to touch it. Food that looked like it belonged in glossy magazines, not in front of someone like me.

I didn’t eat. My stomach was a knot too tight to untangle. Instead, I pushed myself off the bed and wandered to the window.

The view outside was endless, lawns trimmed with precision, gardens sculpted into perfection, fountains that glittered under the sun. But it felt like staring at a painting. Beautiful, but not alive.

This was Kenneth’s world.

Cold. Untouchable.

And I was supposed to live in it.

The hours dragged.

I wandered through the halls with hesitant steps, afraid to touch the polished surfaces, afraid to leave fingerprints on glass that looked too perfect. Every room was spotless, lifeless. Even the air seemed measured, like someone had poured wealth into the walls and forgotten to add warmth.

I passed portraits, landscapes, abstract splashes of color, but never people. No photographs, no memories framed. Just art chosen to fill space.

I wondered if Kenneth had picked any of it, or if it had all been handed to him by decorators while he stood back, too numb or too uncaring to protest.

At last, I found myself in the library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves climbed toward the ceiling, their spines gleaming in neat rows. Books that looked pristine, unopened. I trailed a finger along them anyway, desperate for something to ground me.

And then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Steady, heavy, measured.

I froze, my heart tripping over itself. He was back.

Kenneth appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. He had changed into a dark suit, his tie loosened, his hair slightly tousled. He looked like the kind of man people noticed in rooms, the kind of man others stepped aside for.

And yet, his eyes… they weren’t the eyes of someone who wanted to be seen.

Our gazes met, and for a moment, the silence between us was louder than any words could be.

“You’re awake,” he said finally.

“Yes.” My voice sounded too small, too brittle.

He stepped into the library, his hands in his pockets. “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t hungry.”

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe. Or concern. I couldn’t tell.

“You should eat,” he said. “This house has enough food to feed ten people. There’s no point in starving yourself.”

“I’m not starving myself,” I shot back, surprising even me with the sharpness of my tone. “I just can’t force myself to swallow when everything tastes like dust.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply.

The silence stretched, the weight of unspoken truths pressing between us. Finally, he turned his gaze to the shelves. “You like books?”

It was such an ordinary question, spoken in such a strange context, that I almost laughed. “I used to.”

“Used to?”

“I stopped having time.”

His eyes flicked back to me, something unreadable in their depths. For a second, I thought he might ask what had taken my time away, what scars I carried that still burned. But he didn’t. He turned away instead, walking deeper into the library.

“You’ll find time here,” he muttered.

Something in his tone made me pause. As if he knew the emptiness of this house, the hours that stretched too long, the silence that devoured everything.

As if he was warning me.

Or confessing.

Dinner that evening was worse.

The long dining table stretched between us, a canyon of polished wood and candlelight. Servants carried dishes in silence, their eyes never lingering too long.

Kenneth sat at the head, I sat to his right. The food was flawless, roast meat, seasoned vegetables, desserts that gleamed like jewels.

I barely touched any of it.

Neither did he.

The clinking of silverware was the only sound in the room, each note echoing too loudly. My skin crawled with the tension.

Finally, I set my fork down. “Do you always eat like this?”

His eyes lifted to mine, dark and sharp. “Like what?”

“Like…” I gestured around us. “Like this. A table built for twenty, food enough for ten, and not a single person to share it with.”

His hand stilled against his glass.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.

Then he said, his voice low, “I don’t eat like this. Not usually.”

“Then why tonight?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Because tonight I have a wife.”

The word sliced through me, sharp and merciless. Wife.

I swallowed hard. “Is that what I am to you? A reason to set the table?”

His jaw clenched, and he pushed his plate away. “You’re what I was told to have.”

The words hit harder than I expected, though I had already known the truth.

I forced myself to breathe evenly, to keep my face still. “And what were you told to do with me?”

His gaze darkened, something dangerous flickering in it. “Nothing,” he said flatly. “You’re free to stay. Free to leave. Free to waste away in those guest rooms if you want. Just don’t expect me to pretend this is something it isn’t.”

And with that, he rose from the table and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow house.

I sat there, my hands trembling in my lap, the word wife ringing in my ears like a curse.

I didn’t know whether to cry.

Or to scream.

Or to admit the truth that chilled me the most:

Part of me wanted him to look back.

But he never did.

That night, I returned to my room with a heart heavier than the gown I had worn the day before. The shadows pressed close, and I wondered if this house would swallow me whole before I ever learned how to live inside it.

Kenneth Diego was a stranger. A scarred man bound to me by duty, not by choice.

But even strangers could break each other.

And I feared we already had.