Ch-23

•~• Aziel’s POV

The door clicked shut behind me.

Such a quiet sound. Soft. Barely there.

And yet, it echoed in my chest like a hammer striking steel.

I stood there, staring at the closed door, the words burning in my throat, pressing against my lips—yet never leaving them.

"It’s not like that… The sight of that scar makes me angry because it reminds me of that night. The night I lost you. The night my mother pushed you off that cliff. It reminds me of how I failed to protect you… and our child."

That wasn’t so hard, was it?

A bitter scoff slipped past my lips.

If it wasn’t so hard, then why couldn’t I say it out loud?

Why couldn’t I just say it—when she had asked me why the sight of her scar made me angry?

Dragging a hand through my hair, I exhaled sharply.

Tonight, after leaving my mother at the hospital, I had come home with every intention of telling her everything.

I thought it would be easier if she knew. If she wasn’t in the dark anymore, maybe… just maybe I could finally protect her the way I should have five years ago.

But I couldn’t fucking do it.

The way she froze the moment I called her by her real name—the look in her eyes…

It stripped away what little determination I had built up on the way home, tearing through me like a blade.

And just like five years ago… I cowered.

Just like five years ago… I let the truth die on my tongue.

Maybe it was better this way.

If she didn’t know the truth, she would keep hating my mother. Keep hating me—the man she thought was Nathaniel.

That hate was fuel. And she needed it.

She married me for revenge, after all.

And no matter what, she would get it.

––––––––––––––

Breakfast was quiet. The kind of quiet that was thick, pressing, a silence that carried too much meaning beneath its surface.

Irene sat across from me, her focus entirely on her plate as she cut into a slice of toast and dipped it into her soft, runny egg yolk.

My mother sat at the head of the table, gracefully slicing through a piece of fruit, her presence as commanding as ever, even in silence.

Eventually, she spoke. “Nathaniel, one of the maids reported seeing you leave a guest room this morning.”

I tensed, already regretting sitting down for this meal.

Her gaze flickered toward Irene, who continued eating as if she hadn’t heard a word. Then she asked, “Did you two have a fight?”

"No," I said—just as Irene said, "Yes."

Our voices clashed—hers firm and unbothered, mine exasperated.

I sighed. I didn’t want my mother getting involved, but Irene, busy chewing on a mouthful of toast, clearly didn’t care.

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Just a small argument. Nothing more.”

My mother’s attention, however, stayed on Irene, who continued eating with an air of indifference.

“Couples shouldn’t fight,” she said smoothly. “Especially newlyweds like you two. Whatever it is should be resolved with a kiss. And sex. A lot of sex.”

She paused, took a slow sip of her coffee, then added, “…Which, of course, would result in you two giving me some grandbabies.”

Irene choked, barely managing to swallow before grabbing her water. Her eyes flickered first with surprise then irritation before she masked it behind a slow, deliberate sip.

I exhaled sharply, staring at my mother, who remained completely unfazed.

Internally, I groaned, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. She really just threw that in so casually.

We had talked about the whole baby thing just last night—she hadn’t even given me a response to the condition I put forward, and yet here she was, already tossing it at Irene.

Her desperation was a living, breathing thing at this point.

Irene cleared her throat, her voice slicing through the moment. “My apologies, Mrs. Grant.”

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin before continuing, her tone smooth yet firm. “But I don’t quite agree with you.” 

She met my mother’s gaze head-on, unwavering. “Not every argument between a couple—newlyweds or not—should be resolved with kisses or sex, whether for pleasure or to make you grandbabies.”

She spoke evenly, but there was an edge beneath her words, sharp and unyielding.

“Nathaniel and I just got married, but that doesn’t change the fact that we barely know anything about each other…”

“...It’s normal for our ways of life to clash, our thoughts to differ, and sometimes… that means I kick him out of the room.”

She paused, her hand brushing over the rim of her plate. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, her voice dropped slightly.

“But eventually, we will learn to tolerate and, hopefully… love each other.”

Silence settled over the table.

She resumed eating as though the conversation was over, but my mother… My mother looked genuinely stunned.

I’d bet anything she hadn’t expected such a blunt response. But, being the master of composure she was, she recovered quickly, letting out a soft chuckle.

"You’re right, dear. And anytime Nathaniel does even the slightest thing to upset you, feel free to come to me. You’re my daughter now, after all. I’d like you to consider me as your mother and feel free with me…”

“...Also, stop calling me Mrs. Grant. It sounds far too formal for a daughter-in-law of this family."

Irene’s expression remained unreadable as she wiped her fingers with a napkin, her movements slow, deliberate.

"Can I call you Melissa, then?" she asked, her voice smooth but devoid of warmth.

A pause. A shift in the air.

My mother’s lips parted slightly, just for a second, before she let out a light, measured laugh.

“You’re so...” She trailed off, tilting her head. “I was thinking you’d ask to call me ‘Mom’ instead.”

Irene smiled, but the curve of her lips was sharp, cutting. "My uncle’s wife raised me from the age of seven after I lost my parents… but I don’t call her Mom.”

My mother nodded, her expression carefully neutral. "I completely understand. If calling me by my name makes you more comfortable, then I’m comfortable too."

But I saw it—the flicker of anger in her eyes, buried beneath that placid smile. My mother thrived on control, especially in conversations. And right now, she had none.

Irene had spoken to her with such quiet arrogance, such unshaken indifference, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it—not when Irene’s family was the reason our company was still standing.

The fact that it irked her? It put a smirk on my face.

Still, my mother didn’t falter, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "So, I assume I’ll be seeing you both at your uncle’s place for dinner tonight?"

I frowned. "We’re having dinner at the Lancasters’?"

Irene hummed, cutting another bite of her food. "Today is my cousin’s death anniversary. My uncle invited us. We’re family now, after all."

The fork in my hand stilled. My body locked up mid-motion.

Then, just as quickly, I masked it, forcing my muscles to relax before anyone could notice.

But my mind raced.

Her cousin’s death anniversary? Today? That didn’t make sense. It wasn’t even the night my mother pushed her off that cliff.

So… what the hell was she playing at?

My mother’s brows furrowed. "I thought we were invited for your uncle’s birthday."

Irene lifted her head, blinking innocently. "You must have misheard. It’s my cousin’s death anniversary."

Silence again. Irene resumed eating, completely unaffected. I, on the other hand, could feel the weight of my mother’s gaze—sharp, calculating.

Dread curled in my gut.

Then, in an almost casual tone, my mother asked, "What was her name?"

My jaw clenched. Oh, for fuck’s sake...

Why would she go and ask that?

My grip tightened around my fork as I silently prayed Irene wouldn’t say the name my mind was already screaming at me.

I watched her swallow, her gaze flicking to me before turning ba

ck to my mother.

"Irene," she said smoothly. "Irene Lancaster."

Fuck.

Just. Fuck.