تسجيل الدخول---He was already at the table when I came down, which never happened. His plate was untouched and his coffee had gone cold and he was looking at his phone."Morning," I said.He didn't answer."Marcus."He looked up. "What? Sorry. Morning."I poured myself a coffee and sat down, and he went back to the phone. Then he put it face down on the table, and then he picked it up again."How's your leg today?" I asked."Fine.""Dr. Bennett said you'd have good days and bad days. Is it a bad—""It's fine, Freya."He said it sharply enough that I stopped. He didn't look up. He just sat there with his thumb resting on the edge of the phone, and after a minute he pushed his chair back and said he had to go."Where?""Out."He took his cane and he left, and I heard the front door and then the car, and then nothing.---I spent the morning doing nothing useful.I reorganised the books in the study and then put them back the way they were. I answered an email from Karine about a fabric shop in Par
The newspaper was still on the table when I came down. Someone had left it folded to the society pages, and there we were—me standing beside his chair with my hand on the backrest, him looking at the camera like it owed him money.Marcus Hunt and his wife Freya attend the Hunt Foundation gala.His wife.I read the caption three times and then I stopped, because reading it a fourth time wasn't going to change anything about the last eight months.He'd said he enjoyed himself. He'd said I looked beautiful. He'd laughed at the thing I said about the turtle, and he'd told me about Milo and the salsa lesson. Not once—not the whole evening—had he brought up Jade.Which was why I couldn't leave it alone. That's the thing nobody tells you about being treated badly for long enough: when someone is finally decent to you, you don't relax. You start looking for the catch.He'd called me a ghost in his house. He'd said it in a bedroom with the door closed and his leg strapped to a machine, and he'
I wake up and for a moment nothing feels strange.Then I remember the night before. The laughing. The stories. The way he said, I just don't feel like being alone right now.I tell myself it was nothing. That people are allowed to be pleasant to each other without it meaning anything.I don't believe a word of it.---Maria finds me in the hallway a few hours later."Mr. Hunt would like to see you."I go. Of course I go.Marcus is in the study, dressed and at his desk. His wheelchair is pulled up close to the table. He looks up when I walk in and something crosses his face—not irritation, exactly. Something more careful than that."My father called this morning," he says.I wait."There's a charity gala tonight. The Hunt Foundation's annual dinner. He wants us there. Together.""Together," I repeat."In public." He sets his pen down. "Apparently the press has been running stories about the accident and the wedding. Questions about the company. He thinks two married people standing in
Marcus loses his balance on the fourth step.It's nothing, really—his good leg plants wide and he catches himself on the bar—but the therapist sees it, and Marcus sees that the therapist saw it. The whole session shifts after that.He tries again. Fails again. On the seventh attempt, he makes it to the end of the bars, but his face is dark and set. When the therapist says, "That's good progress, Mr. Hunt," he snaps, "It's not progress. It's barely walking."The therapist doesn't argue. He just glances at me.I'm against the wall beside the bars, where he told me to stay."At least you're walking faster than a turtle," I say.The room goes very quiet.Marcus turns his head toward me. His face is already forming the words—something sharp, something cruel.Then his mouth twitches.Then he laughs.It's short and surprised and a little rusty, like a door opening after years of being stuck. But it's real."A turtle," he says."A turtle with a limp."The therapist is staring at us.Marcus is
I wake with my face stuck to the pillow. My eyes are swollen, my head is pounding, and the clock says half past nine. For a moment, I don't remember why I feel so wrecked. Then I do. You're a ghost in my house. You're less than nothing. I will never feel anything for you. I told him I loved him. Eight years of keeping that inside me, and I handed it to him like an offering—and he ground it into the floor. The shame burns worse than the hurt. He knows now. He knows exactly how much power he has over me. He's at breakfast when I come downstairs. I stop in the doorway. Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away and walk to the sideboard. I serve myself eggs I don't want, sit at the far end of the table, and keep my eyes on my plate. He turns a page of his newspaper. My fork scrapes the china. Neither of us says a word. An hour later, Maria finds me in the library. "Mr. Hunt would like to see you in his room." My stomach drops. "Did he say what about?" "
Six weeks after the accident, Marcus stands.His hands are white-knuckled on the parallel bars. His whole body is shaking, sweat running into his eyes. It's ugly and terrible, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.I can't help it. I smile. A real one, the first in weeks."That was incredible," I say.His head snaps toward me, and his face closes like a door."Don't."I blink. "Don't what?""Don't look at me like that." He wipes his face with the back of his hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for myself."My jaw tightens. I don't say anything."Then stop congratulating me like I'm a child.""I wasn't—""You were."I close my mouth. I step back into my corner.The therapist glances between us, uncomfortable. Marcus wheels himself out without a word, and the door swings shut behind him."He's pushing himself hard," the therapist says. "It's normal to be angry at this stage."I nod. I don't say anything.Three days later, I bring him lunch.I'm balancing the tray







