The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the grand, silent manor as Saoirse rushed down the sweeping staircase, the hem of her Victorian dress clutched delicately in her gloved hands. She struggled to keep her composure, her breath hitching as she ran her fingers through her auburn hair, trying to tame the loose curls that had slipped from her updo. Her reflection flickered briefly in the polished mirror beside the staircase—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, trembling lips. Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage, each beat singing one desperate truth: He's home.
Behind her, Aliya, her devoted maid, descended with a lightness in her steps, a joyful smile on her lips. "My lady, you're glowing," she whispered, almost in a giggle, as she admired Saoirse's flushed excitement. "He'll be overjoyed to see you." She meant well, her voice soaked in affection. But the words, instead of calming Saoirse, made her throat tighten.
Today was the day—after three long, bitter years of absence, after endless letters written and never returned, after whispered prayers and sleepless nights beneath the cruel weight of longing—Fenris was finally back from war.
And now… he was at the gates.
Saoirse reached the bottom of the staircase and gripped the golden handles of the great double doors. Her hands trembled. For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then flung them open, the cold air rushing in and biting her cheeks, her lungs.
She stepped out.
The gravel crunched under her boots as she moved forward, eyes wide and searching. And then, there—just beyond the fountain, the carriage door swung open with a soft groan of iron and velvet.
A foot emerged. A familiar, strong figure stepped down, tall and commanding as ever. Fenris.
Her breath hitched. Her feet moved on their own. A smile bloomed across her lips—fragile, brilliant, full of tears she hadn't even realized she was holding back. Her Fenris. Her husband. He was home. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run to him and bury herself in his chest and tell him everything she never could write in those letters. That she missed him. That she waited. That she never stopped loving him.
But then—
He raised his hand.
Not for her.
From inside the carriage, a slender, gloved hand reached out and rested against his palm.
And then a woman stepped down beside him.
One foot.
Then the second.
And just like that, everything stopped.
Saoirse stood frozen on the steps, the world blurring around her. Her smile shattered, slipping from her face as though it had never belonged there in the first place. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest ached with something sharp and cold and impossibly vast.
The woman, radiant in a deep burgundy traveling dress, leaned gently against Fenris as he wrapped a protective arm around her waist. He looked down at her with eyes Saoirse had once known intimately—eyes that used to hold storms and tenderness just for her.
Now, they softened only for a stranger.
He didn't even see her at first.
Not the wind lifting the strands of her hair. Not the way her hands trembled against her sides. Not the way her soul quietly unraveled behind her tear-glossed gaze.
And when he finally did look up—
There was no joy. No recognition. No warmth.
Only an unreadable silence. A nod. And then—
He turned back to the woman, brushing a thumb along her cheek.
Saoirse's lips parted, but no words came. She had waited for this moment every day. She had dreamed of it with desperate hope—of him running to her, of holding her tight, of kissing the years of separation away.
But all she could do now was stand there, her heart breaking in slow motion, while her husband embraced someone else like she was the one he had fought to return to.
Aliya gasped softly behind her, but Saoirse didn't turn. She couldn't. Her world had tilted on its axis. She had spent three years in mourning, and she hadn't even known it.
And now—he was home.
But not for her.