CHAPTER 5: Wanted for the Wrong Reasons

EMELY

This house has always been quiet. But tonight… the quiet feels different. Not just silence — a silence that echoes, as if every corner wants to remind me that I am not wanted here.

The living room light is still on because I can’t force myself to sleep. It’s almost two in the morning. My eyes burn, yet my body refuses to surrender to exhaustion.

The last email from the medical agency keeps replaying in my head:

[From this point forward, all decisions will be handled through Mr. Alexander Winchester. Emely does not need to be present.]

I could reread it a hundred times it would stay the same. Cold. Final. Punishing without ever raising its voice.

Some part of me wants to lie to myself, to believe this is all a misunderstanding. That maybe Alex will come home and explain. That maybe he’ll notice how shattered I am.

But no. I know better than to hope for that.

Alex isn’t coming home to explain anything to me. I’m not even sure he’s coming home at all tonight.

I pull my knees to my chest, feeling the cold of the marble floor seep into my skin. The ticking of the wall clock pounds through the empty room. I could switch off the lights and go to bed, but somehow… it feels even lonelier in that bedroom than in this wide, hollow living room.

This house isn’t my home anymore. It’s just a place I survive in.

And tonight, I feel something I’ve never felt before, maybe tonight is the first time I truly feel alone as a wife.

I reach for the thin blanket I’d used on the sofa and slowly stand. I’ve been sitting on the cold floor too long. My legs are numb strangely more comforting than whatever is happening inside my chest.

I walk toward the small kitchen at the end of the living room — not the main one, just the pantry where the staff usually prepare drinks. A soft yellow light flickers on automatically when I step inside.

“Is there anything I can get for you, ma’am?”

I flinch. One of the housemaids is still awake. Martha — the oldest employee in the Winchester household. A woman who always tries to appear strong, yet tonight her eyes catch something in me.

“No,” I answer quickly. “I just want to make some coffee.”

Martha takes a step forward. “Let me prepare it for you.”

I shake my head too quickly. “That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”

She studies me for a moment. Her gaze sharp — not judgmental, just… reading.

Her expression shifts — worried.

“I’m sorry if I’m out of line, ma’am… but you look very pale. Your eyes… like you’ve been crying.”

I want to smile to defuse the moment, but my lips seem to have forgotten how to smile tonight.

“I just haven’t slept,” I whisper.

She doesn’t look convinced. People who work in a house long enough learn how to read pain without words. She exhales softly, then speaks almost in a whisper:

“If you’re tired… it’s okay to say you’re tired.”

The simple sentence cuts without cruelty.

I avert my eyes, pretending to look for a cup.

“I’m fine,” I repeat. Not to convince her, but to lie to myself.

Martha stands there a few more seconds before surrendering gently.

“Then I’ll make the coffee for you,” she says softly, without waiting for permission.

This time I don’t argue. My hands are shaking too much to hold a cup without spilling.

She moves quietly, measuring coffee, pouring hot water. The smell of black coffee fills the room for a moment, it feels like an embrace I’ve never received from anyone in this house.

“Thank you,” I murmur when she hands it to me.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

I’m about to walk back to the living room when Martha speaks again — even softer, as if afraid someone might hear.

“If you’d like dinner tonight… I can warm up the soup.”

I shake my head gently. “No. Alex… probably won’t be coming home.”

A pause. Martha lowers her gaze — not disrespectful, but because she knows something she cannot say.

“All right, ma’am. But if you change your mind, please call me.”

I give her a faint nod and leave with the coffee.

I settle back onto the sofa, wrapping my hands around the cup, letting the heat press against my skin. The burning sensation is oddly more comforting than anything left inside my thoughts.

I reach for my laptop on the table — the one thing that has never betrayed me. The screen lights up, opening the last file I’d worked on: the manuscript of my novel, untouched for weeks.

I breathe deeply and place my fingers on the keyboard.

Not because I’m ready to write, but because if I don’t, my mind will go back to Alex.

The first sentence appears on the screen as if dripping straight out of my head without a filter:

“A woman doesn’t endure because she is loved, but because she has nowhere else to go.”

I stare at the line for a long time. It feels like I’m writing about someone else and myself at the same time.

My fingers move again, slowly, following the stream of my thoughts.

“No one sees how she survives. No one knows the pain of pretending everything is okay. People only notice the result — never the war she fights alone.”

I stop. My breath trembles, not from sadness, but from fear.

Fear of realizing that I know exactly how my character feels… because I am writing myself.

The coffee beside me grows cold, but I keep typing — not because inspiration strikes, but because words are the only thing that don’t choose sides.

“She doesn’t want to hate. But the more she loves, the more she loses herself.”

I close my eyes. The ache is sharp, but writing it keeps me from drowning in it.

I delete the last sentence. Then rewrite it.

“She isn’t afraid of losing anyone. She’s afraid of losing herself.”

This time, I don’t erase it.

Something inside my chest shifts, not healing, but recognizing that there is still something left to save… even if love isn’t part of it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been writing. All I know is that my fingers stop when the front door suddenly swings open so violently it crashes into the wall.

The bang echoes through the room.

I slam the laptop half-shut on instinct, not because I’m hiding my writing, but because my whole body freezes.

Heavy footsteps drag across the carpet. One step. Two. Stumbling. Something drops, maybe keys, maybe a watch. I can’t tell.

“Finally…”

His voice is low, hoarse like someone forcing sound through a burning throat.

I turn my head slowly.

Alexander is leaning against the table near the door, his chin tilted downward, one hand gripping the wood edge like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

His tie hangs loose. Three buttons of his shirt are undone. His breath comes hard — hot, sharp, laced with alcohol.

“D-do you want me to get you some water?” I ask carefully.

Alex lifts his head. His gaze is unfocused, as if searching for something he can’t identify — until his eyes land on me.

Not looking at me. More like making sure I’m still here.

I start to step back to call the maid, but he suddenly knocks the chair aside — its scrape slicing through the floor. His steps are unsteady but fast. His hand grabs my arm before I can dodge.

His fingers are hot. His grip is too strong for someone not fully conscious.

“Alex, you—”

The rest of my sentence dies as he pulls me toward him.

No warning. No hesitation.

His mouth crashes against mine, not romantic, not violent, but a mix of both. Urgent like someone desperate, yet empty like someone who doesn’t know why he’s doing it.

My hands push lightly against his chest, not to shove him away… just trying to breathe.

I feel his heartbeat racing, his breath uneven, his body unstable.

But his hold on my waist tightens, as if I’m the only thing keeping him upright.

“I—” his voice cracks between rushed kisses, “—need…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I understand.

He doesn’t need me. Not his wife.

Just something to fill the emptiness and I happen to be here.

I close my eyes, not to return the kiss, not to enjoy it, but to survive the reality that my husband’s kiss feels like protection for himself and punishment for me.

He kisses me harder, not out of longing, but as if he’s trying to escape inside the body of the wrong person.

“Alex…” I whisper. I don’t know if I’m pleading or warning. “You’re drunk.”

“I need you tonight.”

Unable to resist his strength, my body is dragged toward the master bedroom.

And for the first time in our marriage, I realize… my body can be touched without me truly being there at all.