The tea is warm.
That surprises me more than it should.
They never serve it warm. Not to me. Not unless he's here. And he isn't. Or—wasn't.
I blink at the cup. It's floral today. Pale porcelain, lilac rim. I don't remember choosing it. I don't remember much lately, only that mornings hurt more than nights. Because mornings mean I've woken up again.
I raise the cup to my lips. It doesn't burn.
The silence is softer than usual. No echo of heels, no rustle of maids avoiding eye contact. Just the ticking of the mantel clock and the way the light falls across the rug like prison bars.
They hate me quieter now. Polished disdain, trimmed to etiquette. But I still feel it. In the way the footman doesn't meet my gaze. In how the gardens never bloom where I walk.
I sip. Something faintly sweet lingers. Honeysuckle, maybe. I used to love it.
Used to.
The first time they insulted me, it was at a dinner table. Not to my face. Of course not. But close enough that I felt it like a slap. They laughed around me, never with me. And when I looked to him—
He hadn't looked up.
Not once.
He was still beautiful that night. Beautiful and cold, like a painting hung in the wrong room. Like a prince caught in the wrong tale.
That was the first time I realized I was the villainess in someone else's story.
I think I believed I'd stolen him from her. The one they all whispered about. The timeless beauty, the real one. The woman with laughter that curved into his smile like it was made for it. Maybe that's why I stayed quiet. Why I let their scorn settle into my skin like a second bridal veil.
I was always in the way, wasn't I?
Even when I was trying not to be.
Especially then.
The tea's gone cold now. I must have set it down.
A breeze comes in through the open window. Strange. They never leave it open in sunny days. Not when I'm in the room. I glance at the drapes—silk, navy. They flutter just enough to make the shadows move.
And for a second, I think I see him standing in the doorway.
But no one's there.
Of course.
He doesn't come anymore. Not unless it's necessary. Not unless someone might see.
There's a knock.
Soft.
Uncertain.
That's new.
"Come in," I say, but my voice is thinner than I expect. Like it hasn't been used in days. Maybe it hasn't.
The door opens. It's Elise, one of the quieter maids. She doesn't speak. Just bows and sets a letter down on the desk.
Her hands shake.
Why?
"Elise?" I ask, but she's already gone.
The letter is unsealed.
The handwriting is familiar.
His.
I don't open it.
I don't want to.
I already know what it says.
Because he doesn't write unless something's changed.
And things don't change.
Not here.
Not for me.
---
I don't open the letter.
It stays there, breathing against the desk like it might vanish if I blink too long. But it doesn't. Like everything else in this place, it lingers.
I touch the corner of it, then pull my hand back.
Not yet.
A shadow passes the window. A flicker of movement—boots on gravel? I stand too quickly, something in me twisting before I even reach the curtains.
But when I look—
He's there.
Alan.
Crossing the courtyard. Alone.
No entourage. No steward. Not even his gloves.
My first instinct is to step back, to hide behind the curtain like a child. Ridiculous. I'm his wife. I wear his name like a wound.
Still, I stay half-hidden.
He pauses near the roses. The ones I planted two years ago. They never grew right. Always tilted sideways like they didn't want to face the sun. One of the servants said they were cursed. I almost agreed.
He stares at them.
Just stands there.
For a moment, I think he might pluck one.
He doesn't.
He just… touches a wilted petal. Then turns toward the house.
Not toward the main hall.
Toward my wing.
My chest tightens.
I shouldn't feel anything. Not anymore. I trained myself out of it. But that doesn't stop the blood from rushing in my ears.
Footsteps echo down the corridor before I've had time to move away from the window.
Too fast.
I don't have time to prepare my face. My spine. My mask.
The door opens.
I don't remember saying "come in."
He stands there in the doorway like it's his room, like we still speak in the same language. He's wearing black, as always. No crest. No ceremonial silver. Just a man. My husband. A stranger.
"Aveline," he says.
The way he says my name—it sounds like it's the first time. Or the last.
"…Yes, Your Grace?"
A beat passed.
"…Alan," he said. "Call me Alan."
I didn't lift my head. My thumb stilled over the seam.
That wasn't supposed to happen. He never cared what i called him.
He didn't speak right away.
I waited. Still.
Then—his voice again. Slower this time.
"You didn't open it," he notes quietly.
His eyes flicker to the letter on the desk.
"I didn't need to." My voice is dry, brittle. "I already knew it wasn't good."
He takes a step inside.
Not close. Just… in.
Then another.
"I saw Elise," he murmurs. "She seemed frightened."
"Elise is always frightened."
I pause. "They all are. I suppose it's contagious."
That makes him stop. Like I slapped him. But I didn't. I never do.
He looks around the room like he's seeing it for the first time.
The untouched tea. The wilted flowers. The empty fireplace.
"I thought you liked honeysuckle," he says.
"I used to."
He doesn't reply.
There's a long pause. The kind that hums in the bones.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
"…Is that what you usually wear indoors?"
I blinked. Looked down.
It was just a dress. A pale one with threadbare cuffs and a tiny tear I'd sewn last week. My best one, actually. The others had lost color.
"I suppose," I murmured. "It's comfortable."
A pause. Not the kind that leads to words—more like a pause where thinking hurts.
"…You've worn this before," he said, almost to himself.
I froze.
My heart didn't race. It never did anymore.
"I wear what I have."
"But I sent coin every month."
His voice sharpened. Confused. Defensive.
She kept her face still.
"I know."
His footsteps shifted. I heard cloth move. Leather creak. He was standing too close now.
"That shouldn't be all you have."
My fingers curled.
I wanted to disappear. I wanted him to stop.
Because it wasn't my fault.
But it felt like it was.
The way he said it—so calm, like it was obvious. Like I should have said something. Like I had choices.
I didn't.
And now, standing there, looking at me like that…
I felt small. Ugly.
Ashamed of something I didn't even do.
He didn't answer.
Just silence.
I didn't look up, but i felt it—the way the space between us cracked, heavy and thick.
"They mock me at gatherings," i whispered. "Say I dress like a beggar who wandered into a ballroom. That the duchess of Este must be a charity case… or a punishment you can't return."
Still no reply.
I didn't expect one.
So i smiled, brittle.
"It's alright. I got used to it."
I didn't look at him. "They laugh. Loudly. Loud enough for it to stick."
There had been one night— Countess Reliah's ball.
My heels had cracked on the marble floor.
A servant had whispered too loud that "even the maids wear finer threads."
Someone else had called her "the wilted rose of Este."
And Alan…
He hadn't flinched.
Hadn't turned.
Hadn't said a word.
I stood by his side with trembling hands and a smile that wouldn't reach my eyes, wearing a dress three years out of fashion and sleeves too tight at the wrists.
I wanted to vanish into the floating curtains.
Just fade—quietly, without notice.
I gathered the fabric of my skirt in my hands, knuckles pale.
"I didn't mean to… embarrass you," i murmured, ashamed of myself.
He didn't speak right away.
Then, something in him shifted.
I didn't dare look up, but i felt it—the way the air thickened, like the calm before a storm. His presence turned still, heavy. And then his footsteps moved. Not toward me. Away.
The door opened.
For one second, i thought he would say something.
But it closed behind him.
I sat frozen, fingers still grasping the worn fabric of my skirt.
Did i say too much?
Was it my voice? my tone?
Had he been disgusted?
The sound of the latch locking echoed louder than it should have.
I stared at the floor, heart clenched so tightly it barely beat.
I had learned long ago that silence could be worse than cruelty.
"I shouldn't have said anything," i whispered to the emptiness.
It wasn't like him to listen. Why had i believed—just for a moment—that maybe…
I wiped my cheek before the tear could fall.
"I'm still his wife," i whispered.
Then quieter.
"But I always look like I'm begging to be."