“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.

The porcelain mug resting on the counter was not random.

It was part of a set.

One that matched the cup Alexander used every single morning at breakfast—dark rim, subtle gold detailing along the handle. She recognized it instantly.

“Lillian… I’m really sorry,” Scarlett said gently, holding the new cup with both hands as though presenting something fragile. “I accidentally dropped yours earlier. It broke. If you don’t mind, you can use mine for now.”

Her expression was soft. Regretful. Perfectly measured.

Lillian looked at the mug without reaction.

She didn’t answer.

Alexander spoke before she could.

“Scarlett, it’s fine,” he said dismissively. “It’s just a mug. There are plenty in this house.”

Just a mug.

Lillian’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.

It hadn’t been just a mug.

It was the cup they had raised together at their engagement dinner—the one used when the Commission formally acknowledged their union. She had cleaned it herself every time, dried it carefully, and kept it stored separately on the highest shelf.

To her, it symbolized something.

To him, it was replaceable.

“It’s alright,” she said after a pause, her tone almost airy. “I’ll just use a paper cup.”

She poured herself water, drank quietly, and excused herself without lingering another second.

Upstairs, she closed the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed, her mind drifting back to the transfer contract hidden inside her drawer.

The urgency inside her sharpened.

If Alexander refused to authorize her departure as Don of the territory, the Commission would delay her application indefinitely.

She needed clarity.

She needed to know exactly where she stood.

“Why are you still awake?”

His voice came from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts.

Without missing a beat, she lifted her phone to her ear as if she had been in the middle of a call.

“Mm. Okay. I’ll speak to him about it,” she said casually into the silent line before lowering the device.

She glanced at him with practiced ease. “You’re not asleep either. My ankle’s still throbbing, so I was talking to someone from the clinic to pass the time.”

At the mention of her injury, something shifted faintly across his expression.

As if he had just remembered he’d promised to check it again.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he stepped closer and pulled back the blanket to inspect her ankle.

“The swelling’s improved,” he observed after a moment. “Give it a couple more days of rest. It’ll heal.”

His gaze drifted to her phone.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked lightly. “You sounded relaxed.”

Lillian’s grip on the device tightened slightly.

If he had looked closely, he would have seen the screen was dark.

“No one important,” she replied smoothly. “Dr. Brooks. They’re still discussing the overseas deployment program. He asked whether you’d heard any updates.”

Alexander nodded.

The overseas assignment had indeed been discussed frequently among medical staff. Recruitment numbers were low. The Commission had extended the deadline.

“It’s not a short-term commitment,” he said thoughtfully. “But it’s valuable. Those who return usually gain leverage—experience abroad stands out.”

Lillian watched him carefully.

“And what’s your opinion?” she asked in an even tone.

He didn’t pause.

“You don’t need that,” he said flatly. “By the time you’d finish a term overseas, I could have already secured you a better position here.”

There it was.

The answer she expected.

Her gaze lowered slightly as she exhaled.

Of course.

In his world, her trajectory was meant to orbit his.

An old memory surfaced, unwelcome but vivid.

In the past, when their disagreements escalated, Alexander’s temper sometimes crossed lines he never acknowledged. And afterward—perhaps out of calculation, perhaps guilt—he would soften the edges with gestures or promises.

One night stood out more clearly than the rest.

Scarlett had called, claiming she’d cut her hand while cooking. It was minor—barely more than a scratch.

Lillian had asked him to stay.

“Can’t someone else handle it?” she had said quietly, exhaustion evident after a fourteen-hour shift. “It’s not serious.”

He left anyway.

But before he walked out, the argument had intensified.

Later that night, when he returned, irritation still simmered beneath his composed exterior.

Without warning, his hand had struck her across the face.

“If you hadn’t wasted my time,” he’d said coldly, “Scarlett wouldn’t have been alone.”

As if she were the cause.

As if every inconvenience in Scarlett’s life somehow traced back to her.

Now, sitting in the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, Lillian looked at the man she had once imagined building a future beside.

The Don she had defended. Supported. Trusted.

And for the first time, she didn’t ask whether he loved her.

She asked herself a different question entirely.

How had she ever convinced herself that this was love?