The gates of the Thorne estate creaked open, swallowing the car whole. The mansion stood ahead like a ghost from a different life, one she was too tired to keep reliving.
The car pulled to a stop under the grand archway. Heather stepped out before the driver even opened the door. She didn’t wait for Caius.
The front doors opened. Adonis stood in the foyer, arms crossed, dressed in black slacks and an open-collared shirt. As if he hadn’t moved since they left.
He looked at her first, then the blood on her hands.
"Do I want to know?" he said dryly.
Heather rolled her eyes. She didn’t break stride.
Adonis followed her with his gaze. "Heather," he called after her, "your hands are bloody."
Caius stepped in behind her and answered for her. "She hurt herself."
Adonis raised an eyebrow. "Of course she did."
He didn’t press further. He just stared, eyes cold and readable, as if wishing neither of them had returned.
Heather didn’t bother with the elevator. She climbed the stairs, one slow step at a ti, her wrist throbbing with each movent. Blood sared along the banister where she gripped it too hard.
Caius watched her go, but didn’t follow imdiately.
When she reached the bedroom, she pushed the door open and walked inside. The soft hush of luxury swallowed her, gold trim on the edges of the cream walls, velvet curtains drawn closed, the bed untouched since morning. She stood in the middle of it, surrounded by silence and money and history, and none of it felt like hers.
She sat on the bed, letting the weight of her body finally catch up. She didn’t look at the door when she heard it creak open again.
Caius stepped in, he said nothing.
She said less.
And when he lingered too long, she gave him the look, the one that told him she didn’t want him there. Especially not now. Maybe not ever.
He understood. He always did, even when he chose to ignore it. Then, he left.
She sat, staring at nothing for a long while, until her mind stopped racing enough for her to move. She went into the bathroom, the mirror caught her reflection like it was surprised to see her.
She turned on the tap.
The water turned pink as it hit her wrist.
She winced, blinking through the pain as she washed away the dried blood. It kept coming. The cut was deep, deeper than she’d realized. She didn’t cry. She never cried when it hurt.
When she stepped out again, three maids stood in the doorway. Their hands full of bandages and antiseptic bottles.
"Madam," one of them said carefully, "the Master asked us to tend to your wounds."
Heather narrowed her eyes at them. "I didn’t ask for anything."
They hesitated. "He was worried—"
"I said, leave."
They didn’t move.
She raised her voice. "Get out."
And they did.
And as the door shut, she stood alone again, her wrist burning. She glanced at the cupcakes on the stand beside the bed.
Heather sat on the edge of the bed, her wrist pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. She stared blankly at the tray on the stand—two cupcakes with green frosting, slightly squished at the edges. Alex must have left them. He said he would, but she didn’t think he’d rember. Probably after she left for the party, probably thinking she’d need sothing sweet to co ho to.
She didn’t deserve him.
The door creaked open behind her, slow and deliberate. She didn’t have to look. She already knew it was Caius.
He said nothing at first. She could feel his eyes on her.Then the soft click of the door closing. He walked across the room, set a white first aid box beside her, and knelt down in front of her. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled. Quiet and gentle.
"Give your hand."
Heather didn’t move. She looked past him, toward the balcony window. Her silence said everything. She didn’t want him there.
And Caius saw that. Still, he didn’t budge.
Instead, he reached for her hand.
She pulled back instinctively, but he was faster. His fingers closed around her wrist, not hard, but firm enough to remind her he was still Caius. And still her husband, whether she wanted that or not.
She hissed as he dragged her hand forward, wincing at the sharp pain flaring up her arm. The cut reopened slightly, blood beading up again like betrayal.
"Careful," she snapped.
"I am," he replied, not looking at her. "You’re the one fighting ."
She bit her tongue, watching as he took out gauze, soaked it in antiseptic, and began cleaning the wound. It burned. It always did, but sohow the sting was deeper now. He was close, and the last ti he’d been this close, he’d been telling her to get rid of their son.
"You shouldn’t have gone there tonight," he said finally.
"I didn’t ask for your opinion," she muttered.
"I’m giving it anyway."
She tried to pull her hand back, but he held her still.
"You walked into a trap, Heather. That party wasn’t ant to welco you, it was ant to humiliate you. You know that, right?"
"I knew the mont I saw Lauren," she said, eyes cold. "Didn’t need your lecture to confirm it."
He wrapped her wrist gently. "Then why did you stay?"
Heather t his eyes now. "Because I’m not going to spend the rest of my life hiding. Not from Lauren. Not from the press. And definitely not from this marriage you dragged back into."
"You could’ve gotten arrested," he said, voice lower. "They could’ve buried you, and I might not have gotten there in ti."
Heather’s expression softened for just a second.
"But you did," she said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
When he finished bandaging her, he didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered on hers, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin, so careful, like he was scared she’d break again. Or maybe like he was the one breaking.
"I don’t need this from you," she said, barely above a whisper.
"No," he agreed. "You don’t. You need better."
Heather looked at him. "Then leave."
He stood slowly, gathering the kit and pausing for a breath. He wanted to say more. But he didn’t. He only turned and walked to the door.
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