There was nothing but silence on the other end of the call.

For several drawn-out seconds, Lillian heard only the faint sound of Alexander’s breathing through the receiver.

When he finally responded, there was hesitation in his voice—subtle, but unmistakable. “Lillian… I apologize. Something urgent came up at the estate, so I left earlier than planned. Stay there. I’ll return to pick you up.”

As he spoke, background noise filtered through—cutlery clinking softly against porcelain, a chair shifting across the floor.

Then came Scarlett’s voice, light and cheerful, unmistakably close to him.

“Alexander! Dinner’s almost ready. Where are you going?”

Lillian shut her eyes for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against her temple as if to steady herself. A thin smile curved her lips, brittle and faint.

“It’s alright,” she said evenly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll arrange my own ride.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

“…Fine,” he agreed. “Take your time. I prepared something special tonight. It’ll still be warm when you get home.”

The line disconnected.

Lillian remained standing in the dim hallway, the silence afterward heavier than the words exchanged. Her chest felt strangely hollow, yet the ache within it deepened rather than dulled.

Her hand slipped into her coat pocket, brushing against the folded transfer contract she had hidden there.

How exactly was she going to convince him to approve her departure?

She leaned her shoulder briefly against the cool stone wall before forcing herself forward. Every step sent a sharp, punishing throb through her injured ankle. By the time she reached the main road beyond the clinic’s gates, sweat clung to her skin despite the evening chill.

After what felt like an eternity, she managed to flag down a passing taxi.

The moment she lowered herself into the back seat, exhaustion washed over her. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, her reflection in the window pale.

The driver studied her through the rearview mirror. “Miss, you don’t look well. Shouldn’t you call your boyfriend to come get you?”

Lillian let her head rest lightly against the glass, releasing a soft breath. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from her lips.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “Only a fiancé.”

“Then call him,” the driver urged kindly. “You look like you might pass out. No fiancé would want his woman struggling like that.”

She stared out at the passing streetlights, their glow streaking across the window.

“That would be ideal,” she replied calmly. “Unfortunately, he’s busy… entertaining someone else.”

The driver’s brows drew together. “That doesn’t sound very reliable.”

A faint chuckle escaped her.

“Reliable?” she echoed softly. “I’d call it selective attention.”

Every detail of their upcoming wedding—the guest list of allied families, the layout of the reception hall, the redesign of their shared suite—had been arranged solely by her.

When she once asked for his opinion, Alexander had responded flatly, “You’re better at this. Why consult me over minor details? Handle it.”

Yet once everything was finalized, he criticized nearly every choice.

It was Scarlett who later “adjusted” the décor—until Alexander finally approved.

The memory left her feeling drained beyond measure.

The taxi eventually pulled up to the gates of the De Luca estate.

From the entrance to the main doors was only a short walk—mere minutes under normal circumstances.

Tonight, it took her nearly thirty.

Each step burned.

When she finally reached the front door, she instinctively reached into her bag for her keys.

Her fingers met nothing.

She stilled.

Then she knocked.

Several seconds passed before the door opened.

Alexander stood there, irritation already etched into his features.

“Where are your keys?” he asked sharply. “Why are you knocking instead of letting yourself in?”

She stepped past him without answering at first, moving carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her ankle.

Only once she reached the living room did she set down her bag and retrieve her keyring.

“My spare key?” she said calmly. “You took it last week and gave it to Scarlett. Don’t you recall?”

His expression shifted as memory surfaced. The sharp edge of annoyance dulled, replaced by faint awkwardness.

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” he replied. “You could’ve made another copy. You manage these things.”

Lillian offered a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She had stopped expecting equal consideration a long time ago.

When it came to Scarlett, everything required urgency.

When it came to her, everything could wait.

Steadying herself lightly against the wall, she made her way toward the dining area.

Scarlett was already seated at the table.

The moment she spotted Lillian, she rose with exaggerated delight.

“Lillian, you’re finally back!” Scarlett exclaimed brightly, hurrying forward and slipping her arm through Lillian’s as though they were intimate friends. Her smile was wide and sweet, almost childlike, as she leaned in with theatrical warmth.

“I’m really sorry, Lillian,” Scarlett said with bright sweetness, though the apology felt rehearsed rather than sincere. “I was starving and couldn’t wait anymore.” She slipped her arm through Lillian’s as if nothing were amiss, guiding her toward the dining table with effortless familiarity.

Lillian moved slowly, each step sending a pulse of pain through her injured ankle.

When they reached the table, she stopped.

Most of the dishes were already cleared out—only scraps remained, plates half-cold and abandoned. Whatever Alexander had claimed to prepare “especially” for tonight was long gone.

She took in the sight without speaking.

A heaviness settled in her chest, dull but persistent. Disappointment. A sting of humiliation. Something quieter beneath it—something she refused to name.

“It’s alright,” she said at last, her tone steady. “I’m not very hungry anyway. You two can finish. I’ll rest.”

Before either of them could study her expression, she turned and headed toward the staircase, gripping the railing to steady herself.

Behind her, Scarlett’s voice rang out with exaggerated concern.

“Lillian? Are you upset because I started without you?”

Alexander’s low laugh followed.

“You overthink everything,” he said casually. “She twisted her ankle earlier. She’s uncomfortable, that’s all.”

There was an ease in his voice—a softness.

She didn’t need to look to know he had reached out to ruffle Scarlett’s hair the way he often did.

But she did glance back.

Just for a second.

His hand rested lightly in Scarlett’s hair, the gesture instinctive, unguarded.

Lillian’s lips parted as if to speak.

In the end, she said nothing.

Only a soft breath left her as she continued upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her.

The quiet inside felt suffocating.

Her mind replayed the day relentlessly. One phone call from Scarlett had been enough for Alexander to leave without hesitation. Meanwhile, she had endured the clinic alone, waited alone, returned alone.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

She forced the thought aside and focused instead on the immediate issue—her ankle.

Opening drawers and cabinets in the master bathroom, she searched for medical supplies.

Nothing.

After a few minutes, she remembered a secondary first-aid kit that had once been stored in the guest room.

Moving carefully, she made her way down the hall and crouched with difficulty near the closet.

There it was.

A thin layer of dust covered it.

Inside, she found little more than an old bottle of antiseptic—well past its expiration date.

She hesitated only briefly before taking it.

As she stood, she noticed something else.

The guest room looked freshly arranged. The bed neatly made. Clean sheets tucked with care.

She didn’t linger on that observation.

Back in the master bedroom, she lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed and rolled up her pant leg.

The swelling had worsened. The skin looked tight and inflamed.

She soaked a cotton pad with the antiseptic and pressed it gently to the bruised area.

Pain shot upward instantly.

A sharp gasp escaped her.

“You shouldn’t be using that.”

The voice from the doorway made her freeze.

She looked up.

Alexander stood there, holding a fresh bottle of medicinal liniment.

“That antiseptic expired months ago,” he said, stepping inside. “Didn’t you check? You’re still careless sometimes.”

His tone wasn’t harsh—just faintly critical.

He moved closer and crouched in front of her, reaching toward her ankle.

Instinctively, she pulled her leg back.

His hand paused midair.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice level.

The bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to avoid meeting his eyes.

“That’s not it,” she said quietly. “Scarlett’s downstairs. You should stay with her. Just leave the liniment here. I can handle it.”

He studied her for a moment longer.

Then, without warning, he grasped her ankle firmly and guided it into his lap.

The sudden movement made her flinch.

“Alexander—” she began, but the sharp sting cut off the rest of her words.

When he saw the full extent of the swelling, his expression shifted.

The faint impatience vanished.

“…I’m sorry,” he said softly.

The words stunned her.

In three years, she could not remember hearing him say that so simply.

Not when he had once left her in severe abdominal pain to attend a high-profile medical conference.

Not when she later discovered Scarlett had been present at that event—publicly introduced as someone under his personal mentorship.

But now, over a sprained ankle, he apologized.

The irony nearly made her laugh.

“Since when do you apologize?” she asked lightly, keeping her tone neutral.

He avoided her gaze, focusing on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin.

“I should have checked earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I realized.”

There was sincerity in his voice.

For a fleeting moment, something fragile inside her stirred—the faint echo of warmth she once relied on.

But it faded quickly.

“It’s just a sprain,” she replied with a faint smile. “It doesn’t require an apology.”

Even as she said it, she knew the apology wasn’t truly about the injury.

And that understanding hurt far more than the swelling ever could.

Lillian understood all too well how deceptive tenderness could be.

Affection, when offered at the wrong moment, had the power to weaken even the strongest resolve. If she allowed herself to lean into this sudden gentleness—if she let herself believe it meant something lasting—then the decision she had fought so hard to make might begin to unravel.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying her thoughts before they drifted somewhere dangerous.

“Well,” she said lightly, injecting a playful note into her voice, “you’re the Don people have to book weeks in advance just to get five minutes of your time. And now you’re treating me personally—free of charge. I should feel privileged. Most people can’t even secure a formal appointment.”

Her smile curved faintly.

It did not reach her eyes.

Alexander’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

His brows tightened slightly, as though he sensed something beneath the humor.

Was she making fun of him?

The possibility irritated him more than he expected. He disliked the idea that she might be quietly mocking his authority—or worse, distancing herself from it.

Without addressing the thought, he resumed massaging the liniment into her ankle, his movements controlled, deliberate.

Only after finishing the first application did he finally speak.

“Scarlett’s apartment was broken into last night,” he said evenly. “I’ve decided she’ll stay here for a while. Just until things calm down.”

Lillian’s body went rigid.

So that was the explanation.

The missing spare key.

The guest room freshly prepared.

His earlier patience.

None of it had been impulsive.

He had already arranged everything.

And she was being informed after the fact.

A quiet frost spread across her chest.

For a fleeting second, she considered questioning him—asking why he hadn’t mentioned it beforehand, why she hadn’t been included in the discussion.

But what would that accomplish?

“It’s your estate,” she replied calmly. “You can make whatever arrangements you believe are necessary.”

Her compliance seemed to erase whatever justification he had prepared. The slight tension in his posture eased.

“You’re not upset?” he asked, his tone carrying a trace of caution.

She lifted her gaze to meet his.

“No.”

The word came easily.

Relief flickered briefly across his features. He stood and placed the bottle of liniment beside her.

“Apply another layer in about thirty minutes,” he instructed. “I’ll go downstairs. Scarlett’s alone.”

Of course she was.

“I’ll check on you later,” he added.

Lillian gave a small nod.

Inside, she marked another quiet tally.

He had received reassurance. That was enough for him to leave without guilt.

He reached the doorway and rested his hand on the handle.

Then he hesitated.

“Lillian,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, “Scarlett’s sensitive. Try not to act so distant around her next time. She might misunderstand.”

For a second, she simply blinked.

So that was the issue.

Her decision to excuse herself upstairs had been interpreted as coldness.

Should she have stayed at the table and smiled over half-empty plates?

Her fingers tightened subtly around the liniment bottle, the pressure whitening her knuckles.

Yet she forced her lips into a composed curve.

“I understand,” she replied softly. “Please apologize to her on my behalf.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

He gave a short nod and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

The moment the sound echoed through the room, the restraint she had been holding fractured.

Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.

This was the man she had loved for three years.

The Don she had chosen to stand beside.

And yet, never once had she truly been at the center of his world.

The throbbing in her ankle was insignificant compared to the ache blooming inside her chest. It felt as though something fragile beneath her ribs was being slowly crushed.

When it was time to reapply the liniment, she did so herself.

She did not expect him to return.

From downstairs, laughter drifted faintly upward—light, unguarded, intimate.

She lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, feeling colder than the night pressing against the windows.

After a while, thirst forced her to move.

She pushed herself upright and carefully made her way downstairs, gripping the railing for balance as she descended.

Each step sent a dull wave of discomfort through her leg.

Reaching the kitchen, she approached the water dispenser and instinctively reached for her usual glass.

It wasn’t there.

In its place sat a delicate porcelain mug she didn’t recognize—new, decorative.

She didn’t need to ask who it belonged to.