Chapter 52 - A Place That Isn’t Home

A few days had passed and Ayra was now used to waking up to the stillness of the house. The kind of silence that pressed in from all sides. 

No footsteps in the hallway, no quiet murmurs of life beyond her door. Only the faint rustling of the curtains shifted ever so slightly with the morning breeze.

She rolled over in bed and checked her phone out of habit. Nothing. No messages, no missed calls. Especially not from her family. 

She hadn’t really expected any, but the absence still left a hollow feeling in her chest.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. From the day she had arrived, the house had felt strange. It was too large, too still, too empty. But the eeriest part wasn’t the silence. It was how easily she could forget Lucian Cyrus even lived here.

When she stepped into the dining room, the long table was already set—a lavish spread of toast, eggs, fruit, coffee. Everything was perfectly arranged, like a magazine photo coming to life. But Lucian’s seat, at the head of the table, was untouched.

The butler approached, giving a practiced bow. “Good morning, ma’am.”

Ayra pulled out a chair and sat down, glancing at Lucian’s perfectly set place. His cup was turned over, his utensils arranged, but it was clear no one expected him to use them.

“He left early again?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

The butler hesitated. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her fingers tightened around her fork. Did he always leave before she woke up? Was he deliberately avoiding her or something?

Even worse, she was certain that Lucian had only came around twice in the past week. 

She frowned. For the past few days she'd been wanting to have a talk with him. The fact that the house felt and looked barely lived-in got under her skin. It was like Lucian had dug up an old abandoned house from a pile and decided she would live there. This was not what she had signed up for. 

She wanted to ask when he’d be back. Would he be back for dinner? Would he be back at all? But the butler’s carefully neutral expression told her she wouldn’t get an answer.

She ate alone, the distant clinking of her silverware the only sound in the cavernous room.

---

Days passed.

Lucian barely returned and Ayra hardly ever saw him. There had been no contact from her family either - she suspected Lisbeth and Ferdinand had blocked her - but she had learned to live with the loneliness. 

Ayra tried to find something to do, something to break the monotony, but the house itself seemed to work against her.

The staff was polite but distant. No one ignored her outright, but no one engaged her, either.

One afternoon, she walked into the kitchen and saw two maids chatting quietly. They immediately stopped when they saw her, bowing their heads and resuming their tasks with a newfound, almost unnatural focus.

Ayra exhaled sharply. What was she supposed to do with this?

Was it Lucian’s doing? Had he told them to stay away from her?

---

An Unspoken Line

Later that day, she crossed paths with a young maid in the hallway. The girl’s arms were full of fresh linens, and when she saw Ayra, she startled, nearly dropping them.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Miss—”

She froze, her lips parting slightly as if she realized what she had just said.

Ayra blinked.

Miss.

Not Madam.

The correction was instant. “I—I mean, Madam.”

The words were rushed, forced. As if someone had told her what to say, but it hadn’t quite settled in her mind.

Ayra gave a small nod, forcing a smile. “It’s fine.”

The girl hurried off, disappearing down the hall.

Ayra stood there for a long moment.

She wasn’t surprised. She had felt it in every glance, every carefully measured word.

The staff didn’t see her as Lucian’s wife.

They saw her as something... Not temporary, perhaps, but certainly something lesser. The realization made her heart go cold and the more vengeful, malicious part of her awake. 

---

Lucian remained more like a mere suggestion in his own house.

And it wasn’t just the avoidance. It was something else.

A tension in the air. A deliberate coldness.

She knew their marriage wasn’t real, but she also knew it hadn’t started like this.

Something had changed.

And she had no idea why. 

Unless, of course, his previous behavior was all an act. Which she was starting to believe strongly. So, foolish her. 

That night, she decided she was tired of feeling like a ghost.

If Lucian was going to ignore her, fine. If the staff wasn’t going to engage, fine.

But she refused to sit around and let the house swallow her whole.

She found herself in the kitchen after dinner, watching as the remaining staff cleaned up for the night.

“Do you need help with anything?” the chef asked, an undertone of impatience in her tone.

"Yes," Ayra said even though the woman's tone made her seeth. "I want to cook."

She looked up at the cabinets and pantry which were locked. 

"Why are you locking them up? Open them." She said. 

"I'm sorry, madam, but this is how it's done every night."

"So you won't?" Ayra asked. 

"I won't," the chef replied, her tone impatient. 

The finality in her voice left no room for argument.

Ayra clenched her hands into fists. She wasn’t asking for much. Just a conversation, a little normalcy. But even that seemed out of reach.

She left without another word. The chef was a bitch. Noted. Because Ayra had a plan. The last few days had not been spent JUST idling. 

.....

Ayra had no illusions about Lucian’s feelings toward her. He had made it crystal clear—he wanted nothing to do with her beyond the contract. He had cast her aside like a discarded business deal, expecting her to sit quietly in her cage while he did as he pleased.

But two could play that game. Which. Lucian would most likely NOT appreciate it. Not one bit. 

If Lucian wanted to pretend she didn’t exist, fine. But she would make sure her presence was felt in the most frustrating way possible.