Chapter 3 Empty Nights

Rain began to fall outside the windows.

At first it was only a faint tapping against the glass, so soft that Romy might have missed it on any other night. But the room had gone terribly quiet after Devon left, and every small sound seemed to find her.

She sat on the edge of the bed without turning on the lamp.

The rain made her think of another rainy night, years ago, when the sea had been black beneath the lights of the cruise ship and someone had screamed from the deck.

She had run before even deciding to run. The cold air torn at her lungs. People were shouting behind her, but all she had seen was the man in the water, his dark hair disappearing and surfacing between the waves.

Devon Kensington.

The boy she had secretly watched from a distance for years. The man everyone wanted to stand beside, though he had never once looked back at her.

Yet Romy had not thought of any of that when she jumped.

The water had closed over her like a fist. It was winter, and the cold stole the strength from her limbs almost at once, but she had been a competitive swimmer. With firm strokes she soon reached him, got an arm around him. She kept his face above the water even when her own teeth were locked too hard to speak in the icy sea water.

She remembered the edge of the rescue boat.

Hands pulling him up first.

Someone calling for her.

Then nothing.

When she woke in the hospital, the room had been white and warm, and her body had felt strangely distant from her. The doctor spoke gently. Too gently. “There had been complications from the prolonged exposure,” he explained. “You shouldn’t have soaked in the winter sea while on period. Damage that could not be undone. Children,” he said, “would be unlikely.”

Romy listened with her hands under the blanket, fingers curled against her stomach.

Later, Devon Kensington came to see her.

He brought flowers. White roses, wrapped in pale paper. He stood beside her hospital bed looking tired and beautiful and serious, and when he asked her to marry him, Romy had believed, foolishly and completely, that something impossible had happened.

That he had finally seen her.

She thought maybe the night had changed them both. Perhaps love could begin with a rescue. That was then.

Now, the rain slid down the window in thin, wriggly lines.

Romy looked at the empty side of the bed, at the smooth pillow Devon had not touched. Three years of marriage, and she could still count the times he had reached for her without first asking himself whether he should.

She had folded herself into his life quietly. She had learned his habits, his silences, the names of people who smiled at her only because she stood beside him. She had worn his ring and sat through his mother’s inspections and waited through his late nights with the careful patience of someone who believed waiting could become a kind of love.

But Caroline’s voice had crossed the room tonight and undone what Romy had spent three years trying not to know.

Devon had not married her because he wanted her.

He had married the woman who pulled him from the water. He owed her his life, but nothing more.

And perhaps he had tried, in his own restrained way, to be kind to her. Perhaps he had thought kindness would be enough. Romy almost wished he had been crueler. Cruelty would have left a mark she could point to. Kindness had only taught her to doubt the ache.

She lowered her eyes to her hands.

The wedding ring sat loose and cold around her finger.

For a while, she only turned it slowly, once, then again, savoring the silence.

Downstairs, the house remained still. Somewhere beyond the rain, Devon was going to Caroline. To the woman whose tears could pull him out of their bed faster than Romy’s trembling hands ever could. To the woman who could give him the child Margaret had demanded from her only hours ago.

Romy’s thumb stopped against the ring.

The feeling inside her was quieter than tears, and much more frightening. 

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The morning rain in London always carried a damp, clinging chill.

Devon had not come home all night.

Romy did not call to ask where he was. She already knew the answer—he was with Caroline. With the woman carrying his child.

She stood outside the swimming pool at St. George’s Aquatic Sports Center and pulled the zipper of her tracksuit jacket all the way up. Three years had passed since she had last been here, yet everything felt close enough to touch. The distant splash of water and the sharp trill of a whistle sent her heart into a rhythm she had not felt in far too long.

She lowered her gaze to her pale hands.

These hands had once cut through the water at the British Junior Championships. For the past three years, they had only trimmed the flowers at Kensington Manor and ironed Devon’s shirts until every crease was perfect.

Romy entered the center and walked toward the locker room.

Today, she wanted to see if she could still swim.

After changing into the most conservative black training swimsuit she owned, Romy walked to the edge of the pool. Just as she reached the water, she heard the click of high heels against the tiles behind her.

“Well, isn’t that Romy?”

Romy turned and saw two familiar, young delicate faces.

Serena Kensington and Clara Kensington—Devon’s two cousins, and Margaret’s favorite nieces. They were dressed in expensive athleisure and holding the latest iPhones, clearly here to “check in” rather than to swim.

“Serena. Clara. Hi.” Romy nodded politely.

“What are you doing here, Romy?” Serena tilted her head, her tone touched with exaggerated surprise. “What a housewife came here alone for?”

“For working out,” Romy replied briefly, her voice calm.

“Working out?” Clara chimed in, her voice even sharper than Serena’s. “But shouldn’t you be at home making dinner, sorting out Devon’s clothes, or maybe going back to the hospital for another checkup? What are you doing at a swimming pool?”

“I used to be an athlete,” Romy said.

“Oh—right.” Serena drew out the word, as if recalling something from a very distant past. “I remember hearing that. You were a swimmer, weren’t you? But you stopped after marrying into our family. I don’t think I’ve seen you near water once since then. What happened? Did you suddenly remember today?”

“I felt like working out,” Romy repeated.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Clara crouched by the pool, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned closer, like a curious child peering at an animal in a cage. “After all, staying at home all day must get boring. But Romy, if you really want to get pregnant, swimming won’t help much. My mother said you and Devon have been married for three years, and there still isn’t a baby. Is there really something wrong with your?”

Romy looked into Clara’s eyes and read the unspoken mockery.

A few people nearby glanced over with curiosity. Romy felt their eyes settle on her, full of scrutiny and speculation. But she did not lower her head.

She looked at the two young faces in front of her and felt an odd calm settle over her.

Three years ago, when she had first married into the Kensington family, remarks like this would have hurt her. She would have hidden beneath the covers late at night and cried without making a sound. She had once tried to win them over—buying them gifts, speaking up for them at family gatherings, remembering their birthdays.

Later, she realised that in their eyes, she had never truly been a sister-in-law, or even a member of the family.

She was only the woman who had traded a life-saving favor for a marriage.

Serena let out a small laugh.

“You don’t have to hide it from us, Romy.” She sat down on a chair by the pool and crossed her legs. “You had a visit from Aunt Margaret yesterday, didn’t you? She was furious when she came back. She spent ages on the phone with my mother.”

Romy’s heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral.

“My mother said—” Serena lowered her voice, though not enough to keep Romy from hearing, “you and Devon have been married for three years, and you’re still a virgin.”

Clara dramatically covered her mouth and laughed. “Seriously? For three years?”