Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I went downstairs to get my heavy boxes and managed to drag them up the stairs. I took the flight of stairs and into the room I selected and began to settle in. In a few hours time, I was almost done but really hungry. I sped up my arrangement and went to shower. I hurriedly showered then went downstairs to make dinner. I'm just curious, you know. The driver said he wanted to see me at the Manor, well here I am, where is he? It's a little over eight pm anyway. I looked around the kitchen and found some ingredients for only pasta. Has anyone lived here before now? He needed to do some serious grocery shopping.

It took me a while to finish cooking but well, I did. After eating, I served Maverick's on the dining table and went to wait for him on the sofa. I sat on the cream sofa, hugging my knees and watching the wall clock tick by. Midnight came soon enough, so did one and two. He didn't show up. Great. The first night in my matrimonial home and he doesn't come home. Amazing.

Soon enough, I got tired of waiting and slept off.

I woke up to the sound of a muffled laughter and the clink of a glass on the kitchen counter..

I followed the sound bare feet and it directed me to the kitchen.

The kitchen lights were too bright, glaring against my tired eyes. And there the source was.

A girl. Bare legs, hair tousled like someone had ruffled it all night. She wore a man’s white button-down shirt—Maverick’s shirt.

She leaned against the counter, sipping wine with a smirk that carved me open. Her eyes met mine, bold, unashamed, daring me to speak.

She didn’t need words. The message was clear.

You’re not the only one here.

My chest hollowed. My hands trembled.

I turned without a sound, forcing my steps steady as I retreated down the hall and up the stairs and into my room

I slumped against the door. My pulse roared in my ears. The faint scent of his cologne clung to that shirt she was draped in was enough proof.

Evidence

This wasn’t an accident.

Maverick had brought her here—to spit on our marriage before it even began.

When Maverick finally came home hours later, the low rumble of his voice carried down the hall, casual and dismissive, as though he hadn’t brought another woman into his wife’s house.

My anger burned hot and shaky inside me, stronger than the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I forced myself to leave the safety of my room. My bare feet whispered against the cold floor as I moved toward the living room.

He was there—jacket draped carelessly over a chair, his tie hanging loose, hair tousled in that effortless way that probably charmed other women. He poured amber liquid into a glass as though this were just another evening, as though he hadn’t spat on the vows he’d made less than a week ago.

“You brought her here,” I said. My voice came out raw, trembling, but louder than I’d intended. “A week after our wedding. You couldn’t even let me settle before parading her through these halls like—like I don’t exist. Firstly, you dump me in this empty house and make me a caretaker, a maid for you and your precious marble palace, and then you bring in a girl. Have you no respect for me? Did I ask to be here? You think I’m having fun in this prison? Do you, for one moment, think I want to be married to you?”

His hand stilled on the glass. Slowly, he turned his gaze on me. The silence stretched, thick, until a low chuckle escaped his lips. Cold. Mocking.

For a heartbeat, I thought I saw amusement in his eyes. But then it hardened into something worse—indifference sharpened into disdain.

“Surely if you spoke to your parents like this, they would have listened to you,” he said smoothly. Each word was a blade dipped in ice. He set the glass down, leaned against the counter, and let his gaze sweep over me like I was something beneath his shoes. “You think wearing my name makes you my wife? Don’t fool yourself. You’re not worthy of being Mrs. Shelby, Camilla. Don’t confuse paperwork with value.”

I flinched, but he wasn’t done.

“Do not even think, for one moment, that because I decided to help your wretched father and marry you, you have a say in this house. Watch your tongue. You will not speak to me like that again.”

The words hit harder than a slap. My breath hitched, chest tight. My fingers curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms to hold back the tears that burned in my throat.

But he had already dismissed me. He turned his back, swirling his drink like the conversation was over, like I was over.

I stumbled back to my room. The echo of his words clung to me like smoke, seeping into my skin.

In the bathroom, the faint citrus scent of the soap greeted me, sharp and sterile. I splashed my face with water, scrubbing as if I could wash away the humiliation. But the sting in my chest remained. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank walls. That was my welcome into this marriage.

Maverick didn't come home for the next week. I was left to clean up the mess he made with his mistress on that day, the soiled bedsheets and littered clothes everywhere in his bedroom. That's just a different level of disrespect.

Would I have to face this for the rest of my life?

Would he ever change?