Episode 8 — The Apology

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?"

"No, ma'am."

I consider saying no. I consider walking out of the house and not coming back until dark.

I go anyway.

He's at the desk by the window, not the bed. He looks up when I appear.

"Close the door."

I close it.

The clock in the hall ticks through the wall.

"About last night," he says.

"You don't have to." The words come out too fast. "I understand. You love Jade. My feelings aren't your responsibility. I shouldn't have said anything—"

"Freya." He cuts me off. "Stop."

I stop.

He takes a breath. "I'm not apologizing for loving Jade."

"Marcus, I—"

"I'm apologizing for what I said to you."

I close my mouth.

He looks down at his hands, then up again. "I was angry. And frustrated. And—" He stops, then starts again. "I was ashamed. I needed help with something I should have been able to do myself, and you were there. I hated that you were there. I hated that anyone was there."

He pauses, his jaw working.

"None of that gave me the right to speak to you the way I did."

I don't say anything.

"I called you nothing." His voice is quiet. "I told you that you were less than nothing. I sat in that bed and I did my best to make you feel the way I felt—like a body that couldn't do what it was supposed to do." He stops again and swallows. "That wasn't fair. You've done nothing to deserve it."

"And the rest of it," he says. "I made it sound like your worth depended on whether I loved you. Like you were only valuable if I could find it in me to want you." He shakes his head. "That was cruel. And it was wrong."

I want to believe this means something, but I remind myself firmly that an apology isn't a declaration.

"You don't have to love me, Marcus," I say. "I never expected you to force yourself to feel something you don't."

He looks at me. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you didn't deserve what I said to you."

I hold his gaze. It's the first time since last night that I've looked directly at him.

"Thank you," I say. "For apologizing."

He nods once.

I don't tell him everything is fine, because it isn't.

I'm at the door when he speaks again.

"Freya."

I turn.

"Do you really love me that much?"

The question catches me off guard. I could lie. I could tell him it was the medication, the exhaustion, a moment of weakness—anything but the truth.

I don't.

"I've loved you since I was seventeen," I say. "You already know that."

He looks away, his hands folding on the desk again.

"Then you should know I can't give you what you want." His voice is flat. "I don't want you reading anything into last night. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and—" He stops. "My apology doesn't change anything."

"I understand," I say.

I leave before he can say anything else.

The days after that are different.

I still bring his medication. I still sit through consultations and make sure he follows the doctor's instructions. I still help him when he needs it.

But I stop lingering in his doorway. I stop finding reasons to stay in the study in case he wants something. I stop watching him during every session like a dog hoping to be noticed.

I help, then I leave.

For the first few days, he doesn't seem to notice. Then I catch him frowning at the empty doorway after I've gone. Once, when I bring him tea and set it down without a word, he opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then closes it again.

Good, I think. Let him get used to it.

It's what he wanted.

That evening, I'm passing the study on the way to my room when I hear him laugh.

Not the cold, flat laugh he uses on me. A real one—short, warm, and surprised, like something has caught him off guard.

I stop.

The door isn't fully closed. He's at the desk with his phone in his hand, smiling.

Actually smiling.

I can't remember the last time I saw his face do that.

He starts typing, reads something on the screen, and smiles again—wider this time, like he can't help it—his thumb moving quickly over the glass.

I stand in the corridor and watch him for a moment longer than I should.

I don't know who he's talking to. It could be anyone: a friend, Milo, someone from the company. It doesn't matter who it is.

What matters is that I have spent weeks in this house, and I have never once made him smile like that.

I turn and walk away before he notices me.

And this time, I don't look back.