The quiet of the mansion was suffocating.
It had always been that way — vast, grand, but empty, echoing with things unsaid.
Like a mausoleum built for a marriage that had never lived.
Celine padded softly down the hallway, clutching the lapels of her lavender robe.
Her stomach twisted into knots.
She paused outside the kitchen door, gathering herself.
Inside, she heard faint sounds: the clink of a teacup being set down, the soft scrape of a chair.
Damian was already at the table.
Eating alone.
As he always did.
She drew a trembling breath.
"Small steps," she whispered to herself.
She pushed open the door.
---
He was seated at the far end of the long oak table, a single plate of plain food before him.
Black coffee. Dry toast. A sliver of egg.
He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled back to reveal lean forearms, a dark vest hugging his frame.
His cane leaned against the chair beside him, within easy reach.
He looked up the moment she entered.
And in his eyes — those deep, weary blue-grey eyes — she saw it.
The flinch.
He masked it almost instantly, returning to his breakfast, but the damage was done.
Her heart splintered.
"Good morning," she said softly, approaching the table.
Damian nodded once — curt, formal.
"Good morning," he replied, voice low, unreadable.
She hovered for a moment, uncertain.
The old Celine would have barked a cruel command.
Would have hurled an insult about his limp, his posture, his existence.
But not today.
Today, she pulled out the chair beside him — a timid distance, not too close — and sat.
Damian stilled, one hand tightening subtly around his coffee cup.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the strike.
Waiting for the venom.
Waiting for the woman he thought she was.
Instead, she offered a small, nervous smile.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked gently.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Damian blinked at her, slowly, as if he wasn't sure he had heard correctly.
"Fine," he said after a moment, stiffly.
His fork scraped against his plate — an ugly, jarring sound in the silence.
Celine twisted her fingers together in her lap.
She had no idea how to reach him.
No idea how to undo years of damage with clumsy words and broken smiles.
So she said the only thing she could think of.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Damian froze.
He turned his head slightly, regarding her with an expression she couldn't quite read — suspicion, confusion, pain.
"Sorry?" he echoed flatly.
Celine nodded.
Her throat ached with the weight of it.
"For everything."
Another long pause.
Damian's eyes — cool, calculating — searched her face like he was trying to find the trick, the joke, the hidden knife.
When he found none, he looked away sharply, gathering his jacket from the back of his chair.
"There's no need," he said curtly, rising to his feet with a soft grunt. "I'm used to it."
The words cut her deeper than any shout could have.
Used to it.
Used to cruelty.
Used to neglect.
Used to being unloved.
Because she had taught him to expect nothing else.
---
He grabbed his cane, adjusted the strap of his leather satchel over his shoulder, and made his way toward the door with his familiar, measured limp.
Celine shot to her feet, panic flaring.
"Wait—"
He paused but didn't turn.
She hurried to his side, heart pounding.
"Are you going to the office?" she asked, trying to sound normal, casual.
He gave a brief nod.
"Let me walk you out," she said quickly, hoping — praying — for any excuse to stay near him a little longer.
Damian's lips pressed into a thin line.
But he said nothing as she followed him to the grand front entrance.
He moved with quiet dignity, despite the heaviness of his gait.
At the threshold, he paused, reaching for the door.
Before he could leave, Celine did something reckless.
Something that terrified her.
She reached up — carefully, trembling — and hugged him from behind.
Her arms wrapped loosely around his middle, her forehead brushing lightly against the back of his shoulder.
She could feel him stiffen under her touch.
The tension in his body was almost unbearable — like he was made of stone about to shatter.
"Have a good day," she whispered into the fabric of his shirt.
For a long, breathless second, he stood frozen.
Then — almost mechanically — he patted her hand once, stiffly.
No warmth.
No return of the embrace.
Just... careful distance.
He stepped away after a heartbeat, opening the door.
"You don't have to pretend, Celine," he said quietly without looking at her.
Then he was gone.
Gone down the steps.
Gone into the waiting car.
Gone — carrying with him a heart that was bruised, battered, and too cautious to believe her change was real.
---
Celine stood in the doorway long after the car disappeared down the winding driveway.
She pressed her hand to her chest.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes.
"I'm not pretending," she whispered to the empty air. "I'm not pretending at all."
But she understood.
It would take time.
More than apologies.
More than breakfast.
More than one tearful hug.
Damian Wylder had built his walls high and thick.
And she — the one who had driven him to build them — would have to climb every stone with bloody hands if she wanted to reach him again