Chapter fourteen: Cracks Beneath the Surface
The rain tapped lightly against the grand windows of the Leclair penthouse, casting long, shifting shadows across the marble floor. Nuria Varela sat curled on the velvet chaise in the library, her skin pale, eyes dimmed by exhaustion. Her hand, trembling slightly, lay against her stomach—an unconscious gesture, protective, uncertain.
She had vomited twice that morning. Once in the en suite bathroom while Asa was shaving in front of the mirror—he didn't even glance at her. The second time had been in the rose garden, her knees sinking into the damp soil as she retched behind a trimmed hedge. No one had seen her. Or so she thought.
From the far hall, behind the veil of a cracked door, Ines, the eldest of the maids, watched in silence. Her graying hair was tied back in a tight bun, but her eyes were soft with concern. "She's not well," she muttered to the others that evening in the servant's quarters. "It's more than fatigue."
Mayla, the youngest of the staff, whispered, "She's too pale. And she flinches when he touches her now. Doesn't anyone else see it?"
Milo, the butler, said nothing. His face remained unreadable, save for a flicker of tension between his brows. He'd served the Vale family, Asa's birth family surname, since Asa was a boy, before tragedy hollowed out the boy's heart. Milo had learned to watch, to listen without interfering. But something in the girl's silence unsettled him. It reminded him too much of Asa as a child, after he witnessed his family being killed and maltreated right in front of him, that one emotion you felt oozing out of him: fear.
---
That evening, Nuria sat at the long oak dining table, her plate untouched. Asa carved through his steak with perfect precision, the clink of silverware echoing louder than it should. He hadn't spoken much since the night before.
But his eyes found her. Not with affection. Not with kindness. But hunger, and something darker that flickered behind the grey.
"You haven't eaten," he said finally, cutting through the silence.
"I'm not feeling well," she answered softly, her fingers tightening around her water glass.
"Still?" His tone was clipped. "It's been days."
"I think I caught something in Greece. Maybe food poisoning."
Asa pushed his plate away. "Then you should see a doctor."
"I will," she murmured. But her voice sounded foreign to her—small, like a girl pretending to be a woman in a stranger's home.
Asa leaned forward slightly. "I don't like secrets, Nuria."
She blinked at him. "I'm not—"
His hand shot out, grasping her wrist. Not violently, but firm. Possessive. "Then don't keep any."
Milo appeared in the doorway. "Sir, Madam. There's a call for you."
Asa released her. Nuria exhaled. Milo didn't move until Asa walked past him, then stepped beside Nuria quietly. "You should rest," he said, not unkindly.
She nodded once. Then slowly stood, clutching the table for balance.
---
That night, Nuria curled into herself under the heavy covers of the bed she shared with Asa. Sleep came in fragments. Images slithered beneath the surface of her dreams: blood on tile, hands dragging her forward, a man kneeling with hollow eyes, a child's shadow beneath a splintered table.
She woke gasping.
Beside her, Asa stirred. He turned to face her, eyes open. Awake. Watching.
"You were dreaming again," he said.
She nodded, wiping cold sweat from her brow. "Yeah."
He moved closer, resting a hand against her cheek. "It's just a dream, Nuria."
His hand trailed lower—her neck, then collarbone. She tensed.
His touch stilled. "You're scared of me," he said, not as a question.
She didn't speak. Her silence said enough.
Then he smiled—the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm your husband. You promised to love me."
She tried to sit up. He let her. Watched her.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
He lay back, but his eyes stayed open long after hers closed.
---
The next morning, she didn't wake with the sun. She was curled on the bathroom floor, half-dressed in a nightgown, when Miriam found her.
"Oh, child," the maid gasped. "How long have you been here?"
Nuria tried to sit up. "I think... I fainted."
Ines helped her gently, fetched warm water, a robe, and sat with her until Nuria's color returned. Then she said carefully, "Forgive me for overstepping, but... I think you're pregnant ."
Nuria blinked. "What?" She had an idea she was, but she so wished it wasn't true, oh how she tried her best to ignore it, but can you ever ignore something as real as pregnancy?
"You have the signs. The nausea. The dizziness. Your scent's changed too—motherhood has a way of announcing itself."
Nuria stared at the woman. Her heart pounded. "I... I didn't think..."
"You should see someone," Ines said kindly. "But you need to know."
---
Later that day, Nuria stood in front of the mirror in their bedroom. Her hands ran over her flat stomach.
She had always wanted to be a mother. But not like this. Not in this cold silence, this eerie apartment where even joy held its breath.
She hadn't told Asa. She couldn't. Not yet.
But she knew.
She was carrying something new. Something real. Something she had to protect.
And the moment that truth sank in, she felt something shift in her. A quiet resolve.
---
Downstairs, Asa stood in the old study, his hand resting on a dusty photo frame. It held a picture of his parents—before the blood, before the mansion, before the screams.
Milo entered quietly. "Sir, the contractors called again. About the new wing. They need your signature."
"I'll get to it." Asa didn't turn.
Milo hesitated. Then asked, "May I speak freely?"
Asa turned. "You always do."
"You're scaring her."
Asa's jaw clenched. "She married me."
"And you married her , She loved you, and she believed you would be the one to protect her, the one she could call save , but now it seems she got married to something far from save."
There was a long silence. Asa finally whispered, "Sometimes I wonder if love is a slow-burning kind of revenge."
Milo didn't flinch. "You know it isn't."
Asa looked past him, out the rain-dappled window. "Tell the staff to stay out of the west wing. And make sure no one speaks to her about what they think they've seen."
Milo gave a small bow and left.
And Asa, alone in the study, pressed a palm against the glass. The reflection stared back: a man cleaved in two—husband and hunter.
But the girl he'd married... was now the mother of something more.
And the lines between justice and cruelty had begun to blur.