Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You Chapter 42: What Happened?

Sarah

I decide to stay ho for the day. After last night, going to work was the last thing on my mind. I put on a full-sleeved shirt so Marishka does not see my wounds and worry, then head down to breakfast.

As I step into the dining room, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm toast fills the air.

For a mont, I let myself pretend that everything is normal. That last night didn’t happen.

But the ache in my body tells otherwise.

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice light as I pull out a chair.

Marishka turns, her sharp eyes scanning like they always do. She doesn’t miss much.

"You’re up late," she notes, placing a plate of food in front of . "Not going to work?"

I shake my head, picking up my fork. "Taking the day off. Didn’t sleep well."

Her gaze lingers on for a second too long, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she slides into the chair across from , cradling her mug of coffee between her hands.

"You look pale," she says after a beat. "Are you feeling sick?"

I force a small smile. "Just tired."

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.

I push my eggs around my plate, my appetite nonexistent. My mind keeps flashing back to last night—to the way Matthew looked at , the way his touch changed from anger to sothing else entirely.

I take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to ground myself.

Marishka sets her cup down with a quiet clink. "You know, if sothing’s wrong, you can tell , right?"

I grip my mug a little tighter.

But I can’t tell her. I don’t want to.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. "I know."

She watches for another mont before sighing. "Alright. Just...take it easy today, okay sweetheart?"

I nod again. "Did Matthew leave for work already?"

Marishka raises an eyebrow at my question, her fingers tapping lightly against her mug. "He left early," she says carefully. =

I swallow, pretending to focus on my coffee.

Marishka studies , her expression unreadable. "Did sothing happen between you two?"

I force a small laugh, shaking my head. "No. Why?"

She shrugs, but there’s sothing calculating in her gaze. "Just a feeling. He was tense this morning. More than usual."

I push a piece of toast around my plate, my stomach twisting. I shouldn’t have asked about him—it only makes her more suspicious.

"I’m sure it’s just work," I say, keeping my tone light. "He always has a lot on his plate."

Marishka smiles. "So do you. I hope you are not overworking yourself."

I don’t respond to that. "Marishka, can I ask you sothing?" I ask instead.

She looks at questioningly. "Sure, anything."

"Did...did sothing happen to when I was little?" I ask hesitantly.

Marishka’s expression shifts, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before she masks it with a neutral look. She sets her coffee down carefully, her fingers wrapping tightly around the handle.

"Why do you ask?" Her voice is even, but I catch the slight tension beneath it.

I shrug, forcing myself to appear casual even though my heart is pounding. "I just... I’ve been having these weird feelings. Like there’s sothing I don’t rember, but it’s there, buried sowhere."

Marishka exhales, tapping her fingers against the table. "Sarah, everyone forgets things from their childhood. It’s normal."

That’s not an answer.

I watch her closely. "So nothing happened?"

She hesitates. And that’s all I need to know.

"Marishka," I press, my voice quieter now. "Please. If you know sothing, tell . I can handle it. Did soone ever lock inside a dark room?"

Marishka stiffens. It’s subtle—just the slightest tightening of her fingers around the mug, a flicker of sothing in her eyes—but I see it.

I know that look.

She knows sothing.

"Sarah," she says slowly, carefully. "Why would you ask that?"

I grip my coffee cup a little tighter, my knuckles whitening. "Because I think it happened. I don’t rember everything, but I rember the feeling. The fear. The darkness." I swallow. "And last night, I—" I stop myself, shaking my head. "I just need to know the truth."

Marishka exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. "I promised your parents I wouldn’t—" She stops as if realizing she’s already said too much.

A chill runs down my spine. "Wouldn’t what?"

She looks away, her jaw tightening. "Sarah, so things are better left in the past."

No. Not this.

"Marishka, please," I plead. My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound, but I don’t care. "I need to know. I deserve to know."

She closes her eyes for a long mont, then lets out a shaky breath.

"I am sorry, I can’t," she finally says, her voice barely audible. "You will have to talk to your parents about this."

Frustration coils tight in my chest.

I knew she was hiding sothing, but I never expected her to shut down so completely.

"My parents?" I echo, my voice laced with disbelief. "Marishka, they never tell anything. If they wanted to know, they would’ve told by now."

She sighs, pushing her coffee aside. "It’s not my place, Sarah."

"But you do know sothing," I press. "Please. Just tell —was I locked in a room? Did soone do it to ?"

She hesitates, eyes flickering with sothing unreadable. Then, with a sad shake of her head, she rises from her chair.

"I’ve said all I can."

I watch her walk toward the sink, her back turned to as she rinses her cup. The conversation is over.

But the way her hands tremble just slightly as she sets the mug down tells one thing.

She’s afraid.

I stand up. There is no point in pressing her about this. I can tell she won’t tell anything so I decide to do sothing else. I decide to surprise Matthew with lunch.

Maybe it’s a distraction. Maybe it’s an excuse. But either way, I need to get out of this house before the frustration suffocates .

If Marishka won’t tell the truth, then I’ll find my own way to deal with it.

I throw on a light jacket, grab my bag, and check my reflection in the mirror. I still look pale, my eyes slightly shadowed from lack of sleep, but I ignore it.

I stop by a café on the way, ordering black coffee and a roast beef sandwich. I hesitate before adding a pastry to the order.

By the ti I reach his office, my nerves are starting to catch up with . What if he doesn’t want to see ?

Who am I kidding? Of course, he does not want to see , but I want to do this anyway.

I push the thought down and step inside the building.

Donna looks up in surprise as I approach. "Miss Wilson?" She blinks, clearly not expecting . "I thought you had the day off."

I force a small smile. "I do. Just thought I’d bring Matthew lunch. Also, it’s Mrs. Jason now, rember?"

Donna laughs. "Oh, yes. My mistake. He is in his office."

I take a steadying breath and walk down the hall, my grip tightening on the bag of food.

I knock lightly before pushing the door open.

Matthew is at his desk, but he isn’t working. He’s staring at his phone, deep in thought, his fingers curled around it like he just read sothing he didn’t like.

He looks up when I step inside. "Sarah," he says, setting his phone down. "What are you doing here?"

I lift the bag slightly. "I brought you lunch."

For a second, he doesn’t move. "Is it poisoned?"

For a mont, I say nothing but then let out a soft giggle. "Very funny, but no."

Matthew smirks. "Sha," he murmurs, leaning back in his chair. "Would’ve taken out of my misery once and for all."

I roll my eyes, stepping forward to set the bag on his desk. "Just eat your sandwich."

He watches for a beat before reaching into the bag and pulling out the coffee first. He takes a sip, then raises a brow. "Black. You do rember."

"Of course, I rember," I say, sitting down across from him.

Matthew eyes over the rim of his coffee cup. "You’re not eating?"

"I had breakfast at ho," I reply.

Matthew pushes away from his desk, the wheels of his chair gliding silently across the polished floor. He rises, his movents fluid and controlled, like a predator’s. The afternoon light catches on his wedding band as he rounds the desk, and for a fleeting second, I rember the day he slipped it on my finger, how hopeful I’d been.

He approaches slowly, deliberately, and despite myself, I tense. My body rembers even when I try to forget.

"I spoke with Marishka this morning," I say quickly, desperate to fill the space between us with words rather than silence.

He pauses, just a foot away from now. "Did you?"

"I asked her about my childhood," I continue, watching his expression carefully. "About whether I was ever locked in a dark room. Because I truly do not rember anything. I want to know why...why I reacted like that in the basent."

He takes another step closer, close enough that I can sll his cologne, a scent that once comforted but now makes my stomach knot with anxiety.

"And what did she say?" His voice is low, almost gentle, but there’s an edge to it that makes wary.

"Nothing," I admit. "She wouldn’t tell anything."

Matthew suddenly grabs my arms and pushes my sleeves up. I hold my breath, watching his face, waiting for his reaction.

The scratches are dry and healing but still very red. I really did a number on my skin last night.

Matthew’s expression changes, the cool mask slipping for just a mont. His fingers hover over the marks, not quite touching them, as if seeing them has rendered him suddenly gentle.

"You need to put more ointnt on them," he says softly.