Chapter 3

By midnight, the mansion had surrendered to a suffocating silence.

For the first time in five years, I didn't leave the bedroom door unlocked. I turned the brass deadbolt with deliberate slowness, listening to the heavy metallic click that barred him from our room. Needing something to drown out the ache in my chest, I set my phonograph to play Frédéric Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp Minor. The tender, melancholy piano notes washed over the dark room like a slow balm, gradually pulling me into an exhausted, restless sleep.

Three sharp knocks shattered the melody.

"Mrs. Kingsley? Mrs. Kingsley, please wake up!"

I opened my eyes, the maid's panicked voice piercing through the heavy haze of slumber. When the frantic tapping didn't stop, I pulled myself out of bed, tied my robe tightly around my waist, and pulled open the locked door.

The young maid looked pale. "Mrs. Kingsley, I'm so sorry to wake you, but Mr. Kingsley has returned. His liver is acting up-he's in severe stomach pain, doubled over. The butler sent me to ask if you could come down and make that warm ginger and lotus root puree soup you always prepare for his flare-ups."

A bitter burn flared behind my ribs. After sitting alone by cold candlelight for hours while he dined with Vivienne, I was now expected to play the dutiful healer.

"Boil sliced fresh ginger and peeled lotus root in a light, unsalted broth," I instructed, my voice icy and devoid of emotion. "Blend it until it is completely smooth, stir in half a spoonful of manuka honey, and give it to him warm. No oil, no dairy. Now go make it."

Before she could utter another word, I shut the door firmly in her face and turned the lock.

Returning to bed, I closed my eyes, trying to reclaim the fragile peace of the piano notes. But not even five minutes passed before the door was struck again-harder, more demanding this time.

Furious frustration surged through my veins. Could the kitchen staff not even prepare a basic soothing puree without me holding their hands?

"I already gave you the recipe!" I snapped, ripping the door open in sheer irritation.

The angry words died instantly on my tongue.

It wasn't the maid.

Xavier stood there, towering over me, his massive frame casting a suffocating shadow across the threshold. His jaw was clenched so tight the cords in his neck strained, his breathing labored and shallow. A light sheen of cold sweat glistened on his pale forehead, and beneath his hooded lids, his piercing green eyes held a dark flicker of agony. One large hand pressed heavily against his right abdomen, gripping his tailored shirt.

For a second, instinct urged me to reach out to steady him. But the crushing memory of where he had spent the evening held me frozen.

"You heard I was sick," Xavier rasped, his deep voice carrying a sharp, arrogant bite despite the obvious pain wracking his body. "Why didn't you come down to the kitchen yourself?"

The sheer entitlement of his demand shattered whatever lingering sympathy I had left.

"You have Vivienne," I retorted coldly, holding his gaze without flinching. "Why don't you call her back to take care of you? After all, it must have been her reckless cooking that fed you something your liver couldn't handle in the first place."

The name hit a raw nerve.

Xavier's eyes darkened with instant fury. In a flash, he reached forward, his large hand clamping around my forearm like an iron band. With a sudden, ruthless pull, he yanked me forward against his chest.

"Don't you dare bring her name into this," he hissed, his voice low and dangerously cold, his grip bruising against my skin. "She doesn't carry my surname. She doesn't wear my wedding ring. She doesn't live under my roof, sleep in my room, or share my bed."

His green eyes bored into mine with pure, unyielding cruelty, refusing to give me even an inch of dignity.

"That woman is you, Elena. You chose this position-so you do what a wife is supposed to do."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and threatening.

I hated the weakness in them. I clenched my jaw, blinking furiously, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing a single drop fall.

There was so much I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask how he could be so cruel, how he could abandon me on our fifth wedding anniversary, and how easily he had traded the dinner I spent hours preparing for an evening with my sister.

The words rose to my throat, suffocating me, but they died before I could speak them.

His face was flushed a dark, strained red. Sweat clung to his brow, his breathing ragged as he fought to control the agonizing spasms in his side. Even in his fury, the physical torment was breaking through his stony composure.

Seeing him in pain still held power over me, and I hated myself for it.

With a sharp motion, I wrenched my bruised forearm out of his iron grip.

"Let go of me," I whispered, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

I didn't wait for his reply. Turning my back on him, I walked swiftly down the darkened stairs toward the kitchen.

The staff had been dismissed, leaving the vast room echoing with silence. Moving purely on muscle memory, I peeled the fresh lotus root, sliced the ginger thin, and set them to simmer in the broth until they softened enough to puree. I added just enough manuka honey to soothe the inflammation, stirring until the consistency was completely smooth and steaming. Then, from the locked cabinet above the counter, I retrieved his prescribed liver-protecting medication, laying two capsules beside a fresh glass of warm water.

Every step was deliberate, practiced over five long years of catering to his frail health.

Pouring the soup into a porcelain bowl, I carried the tray upstairs to his private study.

The heavy oak door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open to find Xavier seated behind his dark mahogany desk, leaning heavily against the leather chair. His eyes were half-closed, one hand still pressed firmly against his ribs, his knuckles white with tension.

I walked over and set the tray down. I placed the warm bowl before him, setting the glass of water and the two pills right beside it. The clink of the porcelain sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.

I stood there, my fingers curling tightly into the folds of my robe.

Part of me-that foolish, desperate part-waited. I waited for him to look up. I waited for him to notice the exhaustion in my eyes, to say a single word of gratitude, or to suddenly remember the date and offer a hollow apology for leaving me alone.

He opened his eyes, his gaze flicking only to the steam rising from the bowl and the medicine beside it.

"Take the door on your way out," he murmured, his voice flat, emotionless, and cold. "I need quiet."

No thank you. No I'm sorry. No mention of the anniversary.

He didn't even look at my face. He dismissed me with the casual disregard one might show to a hired maid whose only purpose was to deliver a tray and vanish.

The silence pressed down on my chest until I could barely breathe.

"Is that all?" my voice came out barely above a breath, razor-thin with unspoken heartbreak.

"Yes," he replied without looking up, his fingers reaching for the pills. "Leave, Elena."

I held his profile in my gaze for one last, suffocating second before turning around and walking out of the study, the heavy oak door closing on whatever was left of my hope.