Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, stood frozen as she watched the scene unfold, her hands clasped in front of her apron. Her eyes were filled with helpless pity, and Chloe found it even more humiliating than Julian's cruelty. Under his cold gaze, the woman had no choice but to retreat.

Julian guided Isabelle toward the grand, sweeping staircase. Just as his foot touched the lowest step, Chloe's voice—soft yet firm—cut through the silence.

"Julian."

He stopped and turned his head slightly. His face wore a mask of impatience, yet his tone was unexpectedly gentle. "What is it, Chloe? Isabelle needs to rest."

She did not answer his question. Instead, she began to walk slowly toward the staircase, one hand reaching out as though searching for the familiar support of the banister. It was a movement she had performed thousands of times while blind. Tonight, it was a test.

Julian frowned as he watched her approach the stairs.

Just as her fingertips were about to brush the polished oak, he moved. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist tightly. His hold was iron.

"Don't," he said. The single word came out low and rough, carrying a warning that sent a chill down her spine. "The third floor is off limits."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding his excuse. "Isabelle will be staying on the third floor. It's quieter there and better for her recovery. You stay on the second floor."

In her own home, a forbidden zone had been created for her.

A bitter smile lodged in Chloe's throat, unable to escape. The third floor—that entire level had been their shared master suite, blessed with the finest view and the most sunlight, once the sacred place closest to his heart. But now he had given it to Isabelle. He was not protecting Isabelle from Chloe. He was protecting his sanctuary from being tainted by an impostor.

She put on the expression she knew best as a blind woman—confusion, hurt, bewilderment. "Why? That was... that was our floor."

For a split second, she tilted her head and locked her gaze directly into his pupils. Her eyes were sharp, crystal clear, and burning with a cold, piercing intensity that pinned him where he stood. Julian flinched, a flicker of genuine shock—and a sudden, unnerving chill—passing through his eyes.

Before he could process the uncanny sensation, Chloe let her focus instantly dissolve. Her irises drifted, reverting back to the dull, unseeing haze of a blind woman.

He released her wrist as though her skin had burned him. "We moved your things into the master suite on the second floor last week. You were asleep. I didn't want to disturb you."

Another lie. So effortless. He had been preparing for Isabelle's arrival for at least a week, methodically erasing Chloe from their shared space while she, his wife, had been the last person to know.

A desperate and foolish question struggled up her throat. She had to ask it. She had to hear him say it one more time. Gathering every fragment of strength she had left, she spoke.

"Julian, do you love me?"

The question fell into the tense silence, and the air itself seemed to crackle around it. Julian stared at her, genuinely too shocked to speak. Even Isabelle's calm expression faltered for the briefest moment. He studied her face carefully, his eyes narrowing as though trying to see through her vacant gaze and into her mind.

Just as his lips parted, as though he were finally about to answer, Isabelle moved.

A soft, pained gasp escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her chest. "Julian... my heart..."

It was a masterful performance.

Julian's attention shifted instantly. Everything about Chloe and her question disappeared. Panic and naked fear flooded his face as he gathered Isabelle into his arms.

"Julian, answer me!" Chloe's voice broke into a hoarse, desperate cry.

He did not even look back. As he carried Isabelle up the stairs, he threw one final, chilling command over his shoulder.

"Don't cause trouble, Chloe."

Her question remained unanswered, drowned beneath a perfectly timed, fabricated medical emergency. He would not even grant her the dignity of a lie.

She stood at the foot of the staircase, listening as his hurried footsteps disappeared into the far end of the third-floor corridor. It felt as though all the strength had been drained from her body, leaving behind only emptiness and exhaustion. What had she been expecting? A confession? An apology?

She staggered backward, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. She collided with the dining table, now completely cold, and a plate crashed loudly to the floor, the sound deafening in the silence.

"Mrs. Carlisle!" Mrs. Gable rushed forward and caught her arm to steady her.

Chloe lifted her head and looked toward the housekeeper. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, blurring her vision. Above her, the magnificent crystal chandelier shattered into thousands of glittering fragments of light in her sight. In that moment of despair and complete vulnerability, however, her gaze was clear and focused, bright with awareness—it was not the gaze of a blind woman.

Mrs. Gable's hand flew to cover her mouth, her eyes widening at the astonishing discovery. She said nothing, but her grip on Chloe's arm tightened.