Chapter 2-THE ROOM THAT STILL REMEMBERS

The morning after her return, Anais woke up in a room that didn’t belong to her anymore.

Not that it ever truly had.

The walls were the same soft gray, the bed still wide enough to make even silence feel loud. A velvet armchair sat in the corner like a memory waiting to be acknowledged. The window framed the city in gold morning light.

But it was the closet that made her stomach twist.

Her clothes were still there.

Pressed. Arranged. Waiting.

As if she’d just stepped out for air.

As if three years hadn’t passed since she last walked across this room with a bag on her back and a decision burning in her chest.

She reached for a blouse—deep green, silk, the kind he used to choose for her. Not because she liked it, but because it suited the image. The Wife. The Quiet One. The woman who fit into his world without leaving fingerprints.

She put it back.

The bathroom was spotless, her drawer untouched. Same brush. Same lip balm. Even the faintest trace of the lavender soap she used to use.

It wasn’t a gesture of kindness.

It was a message.

Nothing changed unless he said so.

Cassian was already seated in the dining room when she walked in.

He looked up briefly from his tablet but didn’t greet her. Instead, he gestured toward the seat across from him. A plate sat there—steel-cut oats, berries, sliced banana, black coffee.

Of course he still remembered how she took her breakfast.

Of course she hadn’t asked for it.

Anais sat. Quietly.

“I have a meeting at ten,” he said. “We’ll go together.”

She blinked. “We?”

“You’re my wife again, Anais. Not my ghost.”

She forced a small laugh. “I thought I was just your legal accessory.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I need presence. The board is watching me more closely now.”

“And they care about who you’re sleeping next to?”

Cassian didn’t even look at her. “They care about appearances. Stability. The public image of the company’s future. A married man is easier to trust with a legacy.”

“So this is about inheritance.”

“It’s about control,” he said bluntly. “Which you and I both know is the only thing that’s ever mattered in this family.”

She looked away. He wasn’t lying. But that didn’t make it easier to swallow.

“How long do I have to play dress-up?” she asked.

His gaze slid to hers—sharp, unreadable. “Until I say stop.”

The car ride to ValeCorp was suffocating.

She hadn’t been inside his world for so long that everything felt twice as loud now. The tinted windows, the sleek black interior, the silence broken only by the occasional phone call through his earpiece.

He spoke three languages on one call. French. Mandarin. Russian. None of it phased him. Cassian had always been fluent in power.

She sat quietly beside him, trying not to drown in the familiar scent of his cologne—deep wood and citrus and memory.

When they pulled up to the building, the driver opened the door. Cameras flashed before Anais even placed one foot on the pavement.

Cassian stepped out, buttoned his coat, and held out his hand without looking at her.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was precise. Calculated. Expected.

Anais took it.

For the first time in three years, the world saw them again—Cassian and Anais Vale. The billionaire and his vanished bride.

A story the tabloids never stopped chasing.

A story with no ending.

Until now.

Inside the building, everything smelled of steel and money. The receptionist froze when she saw Anais.

So did the executive assistant.

Whispers followed them down the hallway.

“She’s back?”

“Didn’t she leave him?”

“I heard she had a breakdown…”

Cassian said nothing.

He walked beside her like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t disappeared in the dead of night and shattered whatever illusion of normalcy they’d had.

When they reached his office, he opened the door and let her step in first.

It was still the same.

Minimal. Expensive. Cold.

And sitting in the corner was the only person in the world Anais had once trusted: Irene Galley—Cassian’s personal advisor and the closest thing to a sister Anais had ever known.

But the look Irene gave her wasn’t warm.

It was stunned. And then… tight.

“Anais,” she said slowly. “You’re back.”

Anais nodded. “So it seems.”

Irene stood. She was taller than Anais remembered. Or maybe it was just the way she carried herself now. Sharper. More guarded.

“Does he know?” Irene asked.

Anais froze. “Does who know?”

Cassian turned toward the window, silent.

Irene gave her a long, pointed look.

So much unsaid.

So much known.

Anais’s stomach turned.

What had she walked back into?

That night, Anais wandered the apartment after Cassian left for a business dinner. She should’ve felt relief. Silence, space, time to breathe.

But the walls felt closer now.

The air thicker.

She ended up back in the room. The closet.

And she found it.

A box on the top shelf she hadn’t seen before.

She pulled it down with shaking hands.

Inside were things she’d assumed lost forever. A hairpin. A worn novel with notes in the margins. A photograph of her as a child.

And beneath that, tucked between old letters…

A medical report.

Her name at the top.

Date: Three years ago.

Diagnosis: Pregnancy.

Her breath caught.

She flipped the page, hands shaking.

Another line.

Status: Miscarriage.

She dropped the paper.

No.

No, no, no—

She hadn’t known.

She’d left him without knowing.

Cassian had found out.

He had known all along.

And he said nothing.