By dusk, rain had started falling over the estate.

At first it was only a fine mist beyond the tall office windows, silver against the darkening courtyard. Then it thickened into a steady downpour, turning the stone drive black with rain and making the lanterns by the gates hiss in the damp.

I was sorting the last of the ledgers on my desk when my phone lit up with Cassian’s name.

I stared at it for a moment before answering.

The second I picked up, his voice came through low and impatient.

“You’re done at the office, aren’t you? Come to the clinic and drive us home.”

For a second, I thought I had heard him wrong.

Then I realized I had not.

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if I should go out into the rain and collect him and Odette like some obedient wife already trained not to ask questions. As if what he had done the night before had never happened. As if I were part of the household staff, waiting to be summoned.

I almost laughed.

“There’s a dinner here tonight for the department heads,” I said evenly. “I don’t know when it will end.”

There was a short pause, like refusal had not crossed his mind.

“Come get us first,” he said. “Then go back.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

“You can call one of the drivers.”

Then I hung up.

I did not care whether he was angry.

That evening, I stayed.

The dinner was simple, held in one of the smaller reception rooms above the main offices, but it was warm in a way the Ashbourne house had not felt in a long time. The table was crowded with half-finished glasses, plates of roasted meat, bread, and bowls of hot stew. Someone told a story about one of the security captains slipping off the dock during a weapons shipment inspection, and laughter moved easily around the room.

For the first time in days, I smiled without forcing it.

No tension. No humiliation. No need to watch the door and wonder whether another woman would call and take him away.

By the time I got home, the rain had softened to a light drizzle. Water still clung to the hedges and ran in thin streams along the front steps.

It was late.

When I stepped inside, Cassian was sitting in the front room with one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, his posture rigid.

He looked up the moment he heard the door.

“Why are you back so late?”

I did not answer.

I set my bag down, slipped off my damp heels, and washed my hands at the sink near the entryway. My shoulders ached. My coat smelled faintly of rain and smoke. All I wanted was a shower and a locked door between us.

But when I turned toward the hallway, Cassian got to his feet and stepped in front of me.

“Elara,” he said, voice hardening. “What exactly is this supposed to mean?”

I lifted my eyes to his.

There had been a time when looking at him was enough to make something soften inside me. Once, a single glance from him could steady my whole day.

Now I felt nothing.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

His expression darkened. “You refused to pick us up, then you come home at this hour. What are you trying to prove?”

Before I could answer, a soft voice drifted in from the guest room.

“Elara... have you been drinking? The smell is making me a little uncomfortable.”

I turned.

Odette stood in the doorway, pale in the lamplight, one hand resting against the frame like she needed it to stay upright.

For a moment, I just looked at her.

I had assumed he’d settled her in one of the family’s other properties after taking her from the clinic.

I had not expected him to bring her here.

Into my house.

That was almost laughable.

I looked back at Cassian.

“Would you like me to go to a hotel tonight?” I asked calmly. “Or would you rather take her to one yourselves?”

“Elara.” His voice rose at once. “How can you even think like that?”

A laugh nearly slipped out this time.

“Don’t shout just because your conscience is dirty,” I said coldly. “Am I the one acting shamefully here?”

Then I turned to Odette.

“You said yesterday you nearly collapsed because I blocked you. Save that performance for someone who still believes it. I blocked him too. And if the smell of wine bothers you, close your door.”

Her eyes reddened instantly.

Tears gathered so quickly it would have been impressive, if it had not been so familiar.

But instead of speaking to me, she looked at Cassian, voice trembling just enough.

“Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to upset Elara. I don’t want the two of you fighting because of me.”

“It’s late,” Cassian said immediately, his tone softening for her in a way it never softened for me anymore. “Where are you supposed to go in this weather? It’s not safe. Go get some rest.”

So he did know that.

He did know a woman should not be out alone at night in the rain.

A bitter smile touched my mouth.

Once, before I moved fully into this estate, I used to drive myself back from the office long after midnight. Rain, traffic, empty roads—it never mattered. One night I asked him to come get me.

He had laughed and said, “This city is full of our men. What exactly are you afraid of?”

He had been right.

What was there to fear?

Odette stood there another second, as though waiting for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she lowered her head and slipped quietly back into the guest room.

I was too tired to keep going.

I brushed past Cassian, walked into my room, and shut the door behind me.

A moment later, he knocked.

“Elara.”

Then again, louder.

“Elara, open the door.”

I ignored him.

After a while, the knocking stopped. Through the wood, I could hear the low murmur of his voice, then Odette answering softly from the other room. Eventually, even that faded.

The house had two bedrooms on that floor.

I took the master suite.

Odette stayed in the guest room.

And Cassian Ashbourne, caught between the two women he had made enemies of each other, spent the night on the sofa.

The next morning, Cassian was already awake.

Or maybe he had never slept at all.

He was sitting on the sofa in yesterday’s shirt and slacks, looking like a man who had spent the night simmering instead of resting. His hair was slightly messed, there were dark circles under his eyes, and the tight line of his jaw made it clear he was still annoyed.

The moment he saw me step out of my room, he straightened.

“You’re up,” he said. “I had the jet prepared for Blightmoor. You said before that you wanted to go there, didn’t you? I’ll take you myself. Call the office and clear your schedule.”

He said it so casually, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if bringing Odette into our house, arguing with me in the hallway, and leaving me to lock myself in my room had all been too small to matter.

“I’m not going,” I said.

His brows drew together at once.

“You’re still angry?” His voice sharpened with impatience. “Elara, we’re engaged. We’re not teenagers playing at romance. Do you really have to act like this?”

I said nothing.

I only looked at him.

And all at once, something became painfully clear.

When I argued, I was difficult.

When I stayed quiet, I was cold.

When I gave in, it was only what he expected.

When I resisted, I was unreasonable.

No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend first.

Maybe the problem had never been what I said.

Maybe the problem was that I loved him enough to keep excusing it.

He let out a breath, as if he were the one being generous.

“Fine,” he said. “Then I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear?”

I gave a small shake of my head.

“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I’m not angry. So let’s stop talking about it.”

Then I walked past him and headed for the kitchen.

I set water to boil and reached for the coffee tin. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the espresso machine and the soft rain still dripping outside the windows. While I waited, I picked up my phone and opened Instagram without really thinking.

Odette had posted again.

This time, the photo showed her holding Cassian’s first racing trophy against her cheek, smiling softly at the camera as if she were cradling something precious. The gold caught the light from the bedside lamp behind her.

The caption read:

[Sleeping peacefully beside Cassian’s most treasured possession.]

It was not even the same account I had blocked the day before.

This was another one.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then clicked on the profile. We had never exchanged a message. I did not even remember when she had followed me, or when I had accepted it.

Slowly, I put the phone down on the counter.

There was no need to block her again.

I remembered that trophy very well.

Once, while cleaning his study, I had moved it slightly to wipe the dust from the shelf beneath. That was all. I had barely lifted it when Cassian walked in.

He had stopped in the doorway like I had committed some unforgivable offense.

“Who told you to touch that?” he had asked, his voice so sharp it stunned me.

I had apologized right away, explaining that I was only cleaning, but he had taken it from my hands with visible irritation and set it back himself, like even holding it was more than I should have done.

Back then, I blamed myself.

I thought I had crossed some line without realizing it.

Now I understood the truth.

The rule had never been that no one could touch it.

Only that I could not.

How pathetic.

I used to think love meant patience. Understanding. Endurance. I kept smoothing over every cut he gave me until I could pretend they no longer hurt.

But love and indifference were never the same thing.

I had simply been too blind to see it.

“Elara,” Cassian said from behind me.

I turned slightly. He was watching me now, his expression dark, clearly irritated by how calm I was.

“I know I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said. “But it was an emergency. It was life and death.”

Life and death.

The words sounded almost laughable now.

I picked up my phone again, opened Odette’s post, enlarged the photo, and turned the screen toward him.

“Saving someone in an emergency is one thing,” I said quietly. “Then what is this?”

His face changed, just slightly.

I held the phone steady and looked him right in the eye.

“Cassian,” I said, a faint edge of mockery slipping into my voice, “do you remember the day you yelled at me for touching your first racing trophy?”

I paused.

“Do you remember what you said to me then?”