Darkness pressed in from all sides.
She was back in the crumbling apartment again—the walls yellowed with smoke, the linoleum floor sticky beneath her bare feet. The air smelled of sour beer and old sweat.
He loomed over her, massive, his breath coming in heavy, angry grunts.
"I told you to bring everything!" her stepfather snarled, his hand shooting out to grab her by the arm—hard enough that she heard something pop.
"I—I did," Mary Jane stammered, tears burning in her eyes. She held out the crumpled bills she had managed to earn from cleaning houses all week. "This is all I got—please—"
A fist, sharp and brutal, slammed into her side, sending her sprawling onto the dirty floor.
The pain stole her breath. She gasped soundlessly, clutching at her ribs.
"You think you can lie to me, you little bitch?" he roared, kicking her sharply in the leg — her same leg that had been hurting even before. "I saw you receiving money in the repair shop!"
He lifted his foot again and, this time, kicked her in the chest even harder.
Something cracked deep inside her. It felt like her bones cracked and pierced her insides.
She screamed—not just from the physical agony but from the knowledge that there was no escape.
No one was coming for her. No one ever did.
Another blow landed.
And another.
Each strike blurred the world into red and black.
"Make it stop," she pleaded silently.
"Please, someone, make it stop—"
The room was dim, the hearth burning low, casting soft, flickering shadows across the walls.
In the silence, only the occasional crackle of firewood broke the hush.
Lady Whitman shifted restlessly in her sleep, a faint whimper escaping her lips. Her brow furrowed deeply, small beads of sweat dotting her forehead. One of her hands clenched tightly at the coverlet, the other lifting up as if to protect herself, her body tense with unseen fear.
Beside her, Jason stirred. He sat upright from his curled position, watching her anxiously.
Across the room, the Earl, seated in a straight-backed chair pulled close to the bed, leaned forward sharply, sensing her distress.
Jason's soft whisper filled the space between them, fragile and worried.
"She's having a bad dream again, Papa."
The Earl's gaze snapped to his son who had not called him Papa for the longest time. "Again?" he repeated, his voice low.
Jason nodded solemnly, his hair tousled and his small hands twisting nervously in his lap.
"Sometimes... when I sneak into her room at night... she cries in her sleep. She doesn't know I hear her. I just stay really quiet and hold her hand... and then she stops crying after a while."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
The Earl stared at the fragile woman lying on the bed — at her face, usually so calm and composed, now twisted in silent agony. A pang of something raw and unfamiliar twisted in his chest.
He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a murmur. "Did she ever say anything to you about it?"
Jason shook his head, looking down at the bedsheet.
"No. I don't think she even remembers. I think... maybe her heart hurts when she's sleeping."
The Earl could not find words to answer.
Instead, he sat there, a silent sentry at her side, wrestling with a growing sense of helplessness—and guilt.
How long had she been carrying such wounds alone? How many of them had he contributed to, believing her to be heartless and cruel?
As if sensing their attention, Lady Whitman gave a soft moan, her eyelashes fluttering weakly.
Jason immediately brightened and scooted closer, gripping her uninjured hand in both of his own small ones.
Slowly, Lady Whitman's eyes cracked open. The world swam and blurred before her, pain still pulsing dully in her leg.
At first, she could only see the blurred outline of two figures—small and large, side by side—and then Jason's worried face came into focus.
"Mama..." Jason whispered, his voice trembling with hope. "You're awake."
Lady Whitman gave a faint, exhausted smile, squeezing his hand with the last of her strength.
"...Jason," she croaked, her throat dry. She tried to lift her head but immediately sank back against the pillow with a soft, pained hiss.
Her leg bones had been healed by Mage Henry and the priest, but soreness of the muscles and tendons remain. Only time could heal them, the priest said.
"Don't move," the Earl said quietly, rising from his chair and stepping closer. His voice, usually firm and cool, held a surprising gentleness now. "You're safe. Rest."
Lady Whitman blinked slowly at him, confusion swimming in her gaze, but she was too weak to speak further.
Her eyes closed once more, but this time it was in surrender, not fear.
The Earl reached down, adjusting the blanket higher over her shoulders. His fingertips brushed lightly—carefully—against her skin.
Then he settled back into his chair, unwilling to leave her side, as Jason leaned close and pressed his small head against Lady Whitman's arm.
Between the three of them, silence fell again—but this time, it was not empty.
It was a silence filled with tentative hope, a fragile weaving of a broken family trying, somehow, to stitch itself whole again.
*****Still thy soul*****
It had been five full days since that large flower pot accident, and Lady Whitman had been under virtual house, no bedroom, arrest ever since.
No sooner had she attempted to swing her feet off the bed than her lady's maid, the faithful Jane, had come rushing in, clucking her tongue and pushing her gently but firmly back onto the pillows. Meals were brought in on delicate trays, fragrant teas appeared before she even thought to ask, and even the large box containing her sewing project had been moved closer to the bed so she could occupy her restless hands.
At first, the attention had touched her.
But by the afternoon of the second day, Lady Whitman was ready to climb out the window just to breathe fresh air.
She threw a longing glance at the sunny gardens beyond her windows.
Jason, bless his dear little heart, was diligently attending his lessons each day but would come bursting into her room like a spring breeze the moment his tutors released him. He brought her snippets of news, small drawings, and enough questions about her "big brave adventure" to keep her smiling.
Still—the walls were closing in.
Even her muscles were beginning to cramp from so much enforced stillness.
"I have healed," she declared grandly to her empty room, tossing the bedsheets back with a flourish. A dull ache still thrummed in her leg, but it was nothing she couldn't bear. She'd endured worse before. "I am no invalid."
Determined, she rang for her maid and sent a message asking for Lord Whitman to be summoned when he had a free moment.
Not long after, a knock sounded at her door, and the Earl entered, a brow lifted in wry amusement at the sight of her sitting upright, her hands primly folded atop the coverlet—but with a mutinous glint in her eyes.
"You wished to see me, my lady?" he asked, his tone polite but edged with suspicion.
(He had, after all, been warned by the staff that she was becoming restless.)
Lady Whitman inclined her head, ignoring her own fluttering heart, playing at the perfect patient. Okay, his handsome face and great physique are a welcome respite from the boredom. But you gotta be strong, Mary Jane!
"Indeed. I am pleased to report that I am quite recovered. There is only the slightest tenderness when I walk—nothing that would endanger my health."
The Earl crossed his arms loosely.
"And you wish to be released from your... captivity?" he asked seriously, one corner of his mouth lifting.
She smiled sweetly. "Only if it pleases you, my lord."
Her expression then softened into earnestness. "I made a promise to one of our craftsmen — George, the carpenter you met. I promised that I would arrange for his parents and siblings to visit the Whitman Manor. I have promised to show them their son's working conditions, and it would be an unkindness to delay longer."
The Earl studied her for a long, quiet moment.
He saw no trace of selfishness or impatience in her plea — only a genuine desire to keep a simple, important promise.
Finally, he gave a short nod.
"You may leave your chambers — provided you do not run about recklessly and worsen your injury."
Lady Whitman's eyes brightened with triumph.
"I shall walk with the dignity of a matron at a Sunday service," she vowed solemnly, though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her glee.
The Earl chuckled under his breath, the sound so rare and low that it almost startled her.
"I will have a footman accompany you. And should your leg ache—" he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping in quiet seriousness, "—you will rest immediately. Do I make myself clear?"
Lady Whitman gave an exaggerated, prim little nod.
"As crystal, my lord."
He shook his head once, fondly exasperated, then turned to leave. Before he reached the door, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, his voice soft enough that it barely reached her.
And before she could think to respond, he was gone, leaving her blinking after him, butterflies fluttering lightly in her chest.
With visible effort, she calmed her heart and called for help. "Jane," she called softly, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
Her ever-dutiful attendant, who had been sorting linens across the room, her back to them so she could hide her own mirth at the couple's exchange, hurried over. "Yes, my lady?"
"Please send a carriage to fetch George's family. They're expected for afternoon tea, and I do not intend to greet them from my sickbed."
Jane hesitated—the entire household had become absurdly protective of the countess after her injury—but seeing the stubborn light in Lady Whitman's eyes and heard her lady's conversation with the Earl, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried to do her bidding.
Turning next to the footman stationed discreetly outside her door, Lady Whitman summoned him with a nod. "I will require your assistance to the receiving room."
The young man, tall and sturdy, stepped forward and offered his arm. Lady Whitman rose carefully, biting back a wince as she tested her weight on her injured leg. It seemed the healing abilities of the priests in this world was not the same as in the manhwas and animes she's read and watched before. It was true then that their healing could mend broken bones and knit broken skin, but they could not magically heal muscle soreness nor replenish blood.
Together, they made slow but steady progress down the wide corridor toward the main staircase.
She had just reached the top step—the footman bracing her carefully with his arms almost around her—when a deep voice sliced through the air, taut with disapproval.
"That is quite enough."
Lady Whitman blinked, startled, as the Earl of Whitman strode toward them. His brows were drawn low over his eyes, and a tension rolled off him like a gathering storm. Without a word, he dismissed the footman with a sharp flick of his fingers—the poor man nearly tripped over himself in his haste to retreat.
"My lord, really, this is unnecessary—" Lady Whitman began, heat rushing to her cheeks.
But Anthony ignored her protest. With practiced ease, he swept her into his arms—cradling her securely against his chest as though she weighed no more than a bundle of feathers.
"You are my wife," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "Allow me the privilege of caring for you."
Lady Whitman's breath caught—not from pain, but from the strange, unsettling tenderness in his voice. It was the very first time he had ever referred to her as his wife out loud. His scent—crisp linen, faint leather, and an intriguing musky scent that was purely him—enveloped her, and instinctively, she clutched at the fine fabric of his coat for balance.
The world blurred into a gentle sway as the Earl carried her down the grand staircase, his strides even and careful, as if she were a treasure too fragile to jostle. She could feel her cheeks heat up once she noticed the maids and other household staff that gasped and started whispering at each other as they watched them walk past.
He didn't set her down until they reached the receiving room, where the servants had prepared a comfortable armchair by the windows. There, he lowered her with the same reverence a knight might bestow upon a queen—adjusting the cushions behind her, straightening the fall of her shawl, ensuring no discomfort touched her.
She stared up at him, stunned by his gentleness and attentiveness.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
For a heartbeat, Anthony merely gazed at her—an emotion flickering in his dark eyes, something almost vulnerable—before he gave a brusque nod and stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back in a soldier's stance.
Neither spoke of the faint color high on his cheekbones, nor of the way Lady Whitman found herself missing the security of his arms the moment he stepped away.
Not long after, the butler announced the arrival of George's family.
The Earl remained by Lady Whitman's side—not because he had to, but because he wanted to, and somehow, that simple fact brought an unfamiliar warmth to her chest.
George's mother, a kind-eyed woman with a strong resemblance to her son, curtsied deeply. His father, a broad-shouldered carpenter with thick, work-roughened hands, bowed awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable in such opulence. George's younger siblings—a bright-eyed brother of about ten and a shy little sister clutching her mother's skirts—peeked around their parents with wide eyes.
Lady Whitman smiled warmly at them, careful not to frighten them with formality.
"You are most welcome to Whitman Manor. I have long wished to meet the family who raised such a fine young man."
"Thank you for inviting us, my lady."
George, who had been summoned from the workshops, soon joined them, greeting his family with obvious affection. His brother threw himself at him with youthful exuberance, and even his shy sister brightened into a giggle when George lifted her into a playful spin.
The Earl watched it all with a reserved but genuine approval, even exchanging a few polite words with George's father about the craftsmanship in the newly restored east wing.
When Lady Whitman invited them all to dine and spend the night—"So you might not rush away before we have a chance to truly visit"—the family was overwhelmed with gratitude.
It was a simple gathering: no grand speeches, no ornate displays of wealth, just a warm meeting of people—rich and humble alike—sharing laughter and conversation. And for the first time in many months, Whitman Manor felt less like a fortress and more like a home.
As Lady Whitman sat watching George's sister shyly accept a cup of honeyed tea, she caught the Earl's gaze across the room.
He inclined his head slightly—a silent acknowledgment, a silent approval—and, perhaps, the beginning of something far deeper.
That evening, the dining hall of Whitman Manor had been transformed into a much less formal affair than usual.
Gone were the stiff seating arrangements and icy silences that once characterized meals under the Earl's stern gaze. Instead, the long oak table was scattered with fresh flowers, the heavy silverware polished to a gleam, and the smell of roasted meats and honeyed breads filled the air with a mouthwatering richness.
Lady Whitman sat at the head of the table; her injured leg carefully propped atop a cushioned footrest that had been discreetly tucked beneath the linen cloth. The Earl sat at her right—against customs, naturally, though no one cared—but his proximity tonight felt different. Less dutiful. More... deliberate.
Across from them, George's family took their seats, visibly awed but trying not to show it. George's father gave a low whistle under his breath when a footman served him a slab of roast beef thicker than his own hand.
"I reckon this could feed our whole village," he muttered, earning a mortified nudge from his wife and a chuckle from Lady Whitman.
Just as the first platters were passed around, the doors burst open again.
"Mother!" Jason called, weaving between footmen with the skill of a boy well-accustomed to a full household. His face bright and flushed from running.
Lady Whitman's heart warmed instantly. She opened her arms, and he ran to her side—gently now, as if remembering her injuries—and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"You didn't wait for me," he said with a pout.
The Earl arched an eyebrow. "You were taking too long with your lessons, I was told."
"But Mother said I could eat with everyone when they arrived," Jason countered, looking at Lady Whitman with wide, imploring eyes.
Lady Whitman laughed softly and ruffled his hair. "And so you shall. Come, sit beside me."
Jason squeezed into the empty chair at her left, quickly introducing himself to George's younger brother and sister with an enthusiasm that put everyone at ease. Within minutes, Jason and George's brother were deep into a spirited conversation about toy soldiers, while the little girl shyly offered Jason one of the sugared plums from her plate.
Throughout the meal, the conversation flowed easily. George's mother spoke fondly of their village, of harvests and festivals. His father, after several goblets of wine, grew animated describing how George had built his first wooden cart at the age of eight.
Lady Whitman listened with genuine delight, laughing along with their stories, asking questions, her smiles so unguarded that even the Earl—a man well-versed in suspicion—found himself captivated.
At one point, George's sister—perhaps emboldened by Jason's easy chatter—turned her large brown eyes on Lady Whitman.
"Are you a queen?" she asked solemnly.
A ripple of laughter circled the table.
Lady Whitman leaned closer, lowering her voice to a mock conspiratorial whisper. "Only when I have a crown made of sweets."
Jason, catching on to the game, immediately fashioned a crooked 'crown' from bread rolls and placed it atop Lady Whitman's head with great ceremony.
The little girl clapped her hands in delight.
The Earl shook his head, feigning sternness, but there was a betraying glint of amusement in his eyes.
"You will ruin the bread," he murmured dryly to Lady Whitman, leaning just close enough that she caught the low, private rumble of his voice.
Lady Whitman, emboldened by the warmth of the evening, tipped her chin and whispered back, "Worth it."
It was a moment—small, private—but the electricity between them was undeniable. Anthony couldn't stop himself from looking directly in her eyes that it made her breath catch.
As the evening wore on, George's father grew increasingly drowsy, his head bobbing slightly over his empty wine goblet. George's mother, blushing, apologized profusely, but Lady Whitman waved it off with a kind smile.
"You must all stay the night," she insisted. "It is far too late to send you back, and it would be my pleasure to host you longer."
The Earl seconded the invitation with a decisive nod.
"It is settled. Rooms have already been prepared."
George's parents were overwhelmed with gratitude, and the younger children—who were already half-asleep against their mother's shoulders—made no protest.
Later, as the servants helped usher George's family toward their guest rooms, Jason lingered, his small hand wrapped around Lady Whitman's.
"Best dinner ever," he said with a sleepy grin, before yawning mightily and being scooped up by the Earl, who carried him upstairs with a quiet patience that made Lady Whitman's chest ache strangely.
She remained seated for a few moments longer, savoring the feeling—the golden echo of laughter in the hallways, the warmth of full bellies and fuller hearts—and thought, for the first time in a long while, that Whitman Manor truly felt alive.
Truly felt like home.