CHAPTER 39

SO THIS IS PUNISHMENT?...

The morning after the fight, felt like waking into a winter that never ended.

Abigail reached out instinctively, expecting the warm weight of Luke’s arm across her waist, the slow rhythm of his breathing beside her.

But the bed was cold, the sheets smooth where his body should have been.

He had been up before dawn. She hadn’t even heard him dress.

The sound of the front door closing was what woke her sharp, final, as if it locked her out of a part of him she couldn’t reach.

The emptiness in the room pressed on her chest. She sat up slowly, her eyes sweeping the space. No tie draped over the chair, no cufflinks on the nightstand, not even his watch. Things he usually left lying around without a thought. It was as though he had made a deliberate effort to leave nothing of himself behind.

When she stepped into the hallway, the house was already awake, but quieter than usual. The servants moved about in near silence, their eyes carefully avoiding hers.

Something in their posture told her they’d been instructed to say nothing, to stay out of this.

By the time she reached the kitchen, breakfast was set, but Luke’s plate was empty.

"Mr. Vandell already left for the office, ma’am," one of the maids said softly, bowing her head.

It wasn’t unusual for him to leave early when work demanded it but this was different. She could feel it in the way the staff avoided looking her in the eye, in the heavy pause between their words.

She ate alone, the silence broken only by the clink of her fork.

The day stretched endlessly. She stayed in her room for most of it, scrolling through her phone without really seeing anything, trying to read a book but rereading the same line over and over.

By evening, she heard the front door again. The deep click of the lock, the muted thud of polished shoes against marble. Her heart lifted for a second before the sound of his footsteps told her everything she needed to know.

They didn’t slow near her room.

They passed right by.

A moment later, the door to his old bedroom closed.

It was like stepping back in time, to the beginning of their marriage, when he had been polite but distant, cold and untouchable. Back then, she had thought she hated it. Now, knowing what his warmth felt like, it was so much worse.

The next three days followed the same rhythm.

She would wake to an empty bed. Breakfast alone. The servants moving like shadows. No phone calls from him during the day, no text to ask if she’d eaten, no offhand remark about her schedule.

At night, she would hear him return. Sometimes she’d catch a glimpse of him at the base of the stairs tie loosened, jacket over his arm, face unreadable. He never looked up.

She thought about going to his room, about knocking and forcing him to talk. But something in his expression, in the rigid way he moved, told her it would be useless.

He wasn’t avoiding her because he was busy.

He was avoiding her because he wanted to.

On the fifth night, she decided she couldn’t take it anymore.

She waited in the living room, sitting on one of the plush chairs near the fireplace, pretending to be reading when she was really just listening for the sound of his car.

When the engine finally rumbled into the driveway, her pulse quickened. She set the book aside, straightened her posture, and forced herself to stay put.

The door opened. His tall frame filled the entryway. He glanced at her once briefly, coolly and then started toward the stairs.

"You’re not even going to say anything?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound calm.

He paused, one foot on the first step, his back still to her.

"There’s nothing to say," he replied, his tone low but clipped.

"Luke"

"Abigail." He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers with a look that made her breath hitch. "Not tonight."

And with that, he walked up the stairs, disappearing into the hallway.

That night, she lay awake in their.. no, her bedroom, staring at the ceiling.

She thought about the beginning of their relationship. How she had told herself she didn’t care about his coldness because this was just a one-year contract. How she had convinced herself she could live without his affection.

But she couldn’t unlearn the sound of his laugh, the way his hands felt when they cupped her face, the heat of his gaze when he wanted her.

Now, she had all the coldness and none of the warmth, and it felt like losing something she’d never truly owned.

On the seventh day, she woke to find a note on the nightstand.

"Business trip. Back in three days."

No love, no take care, not even a signature.

Just like that, he was gone again.

And for the first time since their marriage began, Abigail wondered if it was ever going to end well.

The note lay there like an insult, its plainness cutting sharper than any harsh words could have.

She picked it up, staring at the short message, tracing the letters with her thumb as though searching for hidden meaning in the neat, impersonal strokes.

A business trip. Three days.

She didn’t even know where he was going. Didn’t know who he would be meeting, what the trip involved, or whether it was even real.

It struck her then how easily he could disappear from her life if he wanted to. She had no claim over his movements, no real power to demand explanations. She was his wife in name, yes, but when he chose to retreat into himself, that title meant nothing.

Her appetite vanished. She skipped breakfast entirely, pacing the length of the bedroom until the sun climbed higher and the day grew long and empty.

The silence of the house became oppressive. Every sound her footsteps on the hardwood, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of settling wood felt amplified, like reminders of her isolation.

Even the staff, usually willing to make small talk or offer quiet company, now kept their distance.

They were polite, attentive when she asked for something, but their conversations were clipped, their smiles faint.

Luke’s coldness wasn’t just between them, it spread like frost over everything, setting the tone for the entire household.

By the second day, Abigail found herself sitting on the edge of their bed, clutching one of his sweaters just to breathe in his scent.

It wasn’t a deliberate choice, it was instinct, as if some part of her was trying to fill the void he’d left behind.

She pressed the fabric to her face, inhaling deeply, and for a moment it was like he was there again, close enough to touch. But when she opened her eyes, she was alone.

The memory of his warmth didn’t help. It only made the present feel colder.

On the third evening, she sat by the window, watching the driveway.

She knew better than to expect him at a specific hour, but she still tracked the fading daylight, listening for the sound of an engine, the crunch of tires over gravel.

The minutes stretched into hours.

When headlights finally swept across the lawn, her heart leapt before she remembered the note.

He would come in, and nothing would change.

The door opened.

Luke stepped inside, perfectly composed, his coat draped over one arm.

"Welcome back," she said quietly, standing in the doorway of the living room.

He nodded once, the gesture so perfunctory it could have been aimed at anyone.

Then he passed her without slowing, taking the stairs two at a time until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

She lay awake, her mind racing, replaying every moment since the fight. Every cold glance, every silent breakfast, every night he had chosen a different bed over hers.

She thought about the early days of their marriage, about how she had hated his indifference then. But at least back then she hadn’t known what it felt like when he let her in. She hadn’t felt the weight of losing it.

Now, the absence was unbearable.

The next morning, she decided to try one last time.

She waited in the dining room for him, determined to catch him before he left for work.

When he came down the stairs, his expression was unreadable. He was already in his suit, tie perfectly knotted, hair neatly in place.

"Luke," she said, standing as he entered.

He glanced at her, then at his watch. "I’m late."

"You’ve been avoiding me," she said, forcing her voice to stay even.

"I’ve been working."

"That’s not true, and you know it."

He set his briefcase on the table and looked at her, his gaze steady but cold.

"You made a choice," he said. "And I’m making mine."

Her throat tightened. "So this is punishment?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door.

The sound of it closing behind him was louder than it should have been.

The days that followed blurred together.

He stopped eating dinner at home entirely, claiming late meetings or client events. When he did come back, it was long after she’d gone to bed.

Once, she heard him in the kitchen around midnight, speaking in low tones on the phone. She couldn’t make out the words, but the calm steadiness of his voice told her they weren’t about he. She wasn’t on his mind.

One evening, in a moment of quiet desperation, she went to his room.

It looked exactly as it had in the early months of their marriage immaculate, almost impersonal. The bed was perfectly made, the desk organized with mechanical precision.

She sat on the edge of it, gripping the duvet. The faint scent of his cologne clung to the pillows, and it twisted something in her chest.

She realized she could beg him to talk, to explain, to fight with her instead of freezing her out. But begging wouldn’t make him soften.

Luke only moved when he wanted to. And right now, he didn’t want to move toward her at all.

By the tenth day, she began to wonder how much longer she could stand it.

Her world had shrunk to the walls of the house, to the sound of his footsteps in the distance, to the sharp ache of missing someone who was right there yet completely out of reach.

She thought about confronting him in public, forcing him to acknowledge her in front of others. But she knew that, too, would fail. Luke was a master at control. He would smile, play the part, and then return to his silence as soon as they were alone.

The truth settled in her bones like ice.

This was the man she had first met the one who could keep the world at arm’s length, including her, without flinching.

And she had no idea how to thaw him this time.