Chapter 5

Kathy Pov

It’s been a week since I married Jason and moved into his Gothic mansion. I’ve barely seen him since. I wanted to ask him about that strawberry-blonde woman, but I couldn’t—throughout our journey, she and Jason kept talking endlessly about business. Even when we landed, she followed us out of the airport before disappearing on her own.

After that he brought me here. The house itself is a world of its own—perched on the outskirts of New York, so vast it seems to devour the land around it. From the outside, its black stone spires and arched windows look more like an ancient cathedral than a home. Wealth is carved into every corner, yet stepping inside felt less like entering a sanctuary and more like being swallowed whole.

The air was cool and unnervingly still. Black marble floors reflected the chandeliers above, their crystal light dazzling but cold. Every step I took echoed down endless corridors, each one lined with tall windows draped in heavy curtains that shut out the sun.

Room after room stretched open—grand sitting rooms filled with velvet couches that had never been used, a dining hall fit for a king with a table long enough for twenty guests but no laughter to fill it. Even the kitchen, gleaming with black granite and stainless steel, felt sterile, like no real meal had ever been made there.

The color scheme consumed everything: black, grey, muted silver—even the garden seating outside matched the lifeless palette. No photographs, no personal touches, no evidence of a man who lived here. Only of someone who owned it.

Upstairs, the corridors branched endlessly, lined with guest rooms that seemed untouched by time. My room—the one Jason asked Genevieve to prepare—was the only exception. White and gold, bright and warm, as if designed to soften the prison he’d locked me into.

Despite its magnificence—the private theater, the indoor swimming pool, gaming room, the sprawling gardens—none of it dazzled me. The mansion was a palace built of shadows and silence. Beautiful, yes. But a kind of beautiful that makes you feel small. A kind of beautiful that leaves you aching for something real.

Jason introduced me to the people who kept the house alive: Genevieve, the maid and cook, a woman in her late forties; her husband, Francis, the gardener and groundskeeper, who looked about fifty; and my driver, Davies, a man in his sixties. They were kind enough, but by seven every evening they vanished, leaving me utterly alone in this cavernous house.

For now, I was relieved to have my own space which felt good and my wardrobe was already filled with everything: casual outfits, party dresses, elegant gowns, nightwear, lingerie, even my favorite toiletries.

It’s not like we never had sex—we have, but only a handful of times. My studies, his career, and the distance between us always interfered. Still, he is my first, and I’ve always cherished that. Yet here, silence lingered heavier than the walls, and the staff spoke so little that boredom gnawed at me.

Jason bought me a new phone and laptop. He promised, “I’ll see you soon.” I thought he meant the next morning… not a week later.

I know his brother is in the hospital, and he’s supporting his father with business and health matters. That must be a lot. But isn’t that why I’m here now? Shouldn’t he lean on me? I wished he would take me to see his brother and father so I could help in some way. Instead, I was shut away here, waiting.

Tonight, I overheard Francis on the landline—Jason was coming home. My heart fluttered with excitement. I wanted to make him feel welcomed, comforted. Loved. So, I decided to cook for him.

I asked Davies to drive me to the grocery store. I gathered everything I needed for Jason’s favorites—chicken stew with lemon pasta, and a mango tart.

Back home, I dismissed the staff, wanting this night to be just ours. I cooked, showered, slipped into a pink floral dress, dabbed on a little makeup. By the time I lit candles and set the table with flowers, the mansion no longer felt so lonely.

The front door creaked open. My heart leapt. Jason stepped inside, exhaustion clinging to him. His beautiful green eyes were bloodshot and weary, his posture heavy with fatigue. His pristine clothes were wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with a scruff of beard.

I rushed to him with a smile. “Welcome home, Jay.”

He whipped his head toward me as if he’d forgotten I even existed. A sharp ache pierced my chest, but I ignored it. “You look so tired. Take a shower and come down—I’ll reheat the food.” Without waiting for his answer, I hurried back to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he joined me in sweatpants and a black tee, his damp hair clinging to his temples. I’d set the meal outside, in the garden’s sitting area—more intimate than the cold, echoing dining room. I poured stew into his bowl and placed pasta on his plate, then sat across from him, my heart racing as I watched him.

Jason lifted the spoon, brought it to his lips… and froze.

For a heartbeat, I thought he was savoring the flavor. But then his eyes widened, the color draining from his face before something darker—panic, then fury—flashed across them.

He shoved back his chair so hard it screeched against the floor. His green eyes blazed, not with weariness but something wild, something unspoken. The vein at his neck pulsed furiously, his jaw clenched so tightly I swore I heard his teeth grind.

“Jason?” My voice was small, uncertain. “Is it… is it not good?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze darted, almost involuntarily, toward the shadowed corridor beyond the garden doors—as though something, or someone, lurked there. Then, with a sudden violent movement, he gripped the edge of the table and flipped it.

Candles toppled, wax spilling like tears. Flowers scattered, their petals crushed under broken plates. The stew seeped across the stone floor, dark and heavy like blood. My carefully prepared evening shattered in an instant.

I stood frozen, my heart in pieces among the debris. He didn’t even look at me. He just turned away, his broad back retreating into the gloom of the mansion. His shadow stretched along the wall, distorted, monstrous, until it disappeared into the darkness.

I pressed my trembling hands against my chest, trying to steady my racing pulse. Something in his eyes before he left haunted me—the wildness, yes, but also fear. Fear that didn’t belong to a man like Jason.

It was as if he wasn’t angry at me at all. He was terrified of something I couldn’t see.

And for the first time, a whisper of dread coiled cold in my stomach.

Had I made a mistake marrying him?