The golden pools of morning sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling onto plush carpeting in the master bedroom. It was one of those weird, teasing moments when I could have been anywhere. There were hazy memories hanging just out of reach, marriage vows, champagne toasts, and whispers about our "unlikely match" seemed like parts of a dream.
But then I rolled onto the other side of the bed, and the cool, untouched sheets told a grim story. This was no dream.
I was Mrs. Ethan Blackwell.
There was something in the weight of that thought. The man to whom I had married-a stranger in so many ways-had stormed out after our tense exchange in the honeymoon suite last night and hadn't returned until long past midnight. I'd heard the faint echo of his footsteps down the hall, the firm click of his study door, and then silence. He hadn't come to bed.
I looked at the expanse of empty sheets beside me and sighed. This wasn't the life I had imagined. Marriage to Ethan had been a hope, a dream even, fueled by the flicker of possibility I'd seen in his guarded eyes when we first met. But now, that dream felt as cold and distant as the man himself.
But I just couldn't let things be like that. Ethan hid himself behind an imaginary wall, and I didn't feel like giving up just yet.
Hours ticked by as I did a round of the mansion, passing time with whatever I could while waiting for Ethan to arrive. There were just too many unspoken words, too many unshared spaces weighing down the air. I had spent the morning unpacking my stuff, folding dresses, and hanging them neatly in the cavernous walk-in closet.
Standing before the mirror, I brushed my hair in slow motions, the diamond bracelet that Ethan's mother had given me at the wedding glinting in the light. It weighed heavily on my wrist, it felt more like a shackle than an ornament, yet I wore it with quiet resolve.
If only I could reach him, break through the walls he'd erected, maybe I could show him this marriage didn't have to be a prison.
By evening, I had all that thought out to the most minute detail. Dinner was going to be in a candlelit formal dining room using sterling silver and fine China. I instructed the people there to prepare one of Ethan's favorite dishes that I managed to learn from passing remarks of his mother back then, when preparations for the wedding were ongoing. Then I selected a deep green dress which would accentuate my figure in ways I have hopefully prayed he couldn't overlook.
My breath caught when the front door finally opened. Ethan's footsteps were deliberate, echoing down the marble hall. I smoothed the fabric of my dress and turned as he stepped into the doorway.
His presence filled the room, commanding even in silence. His suit jacket hung open, and he loosened his tie as his eyes scanned the table before settling on me.
"What is this?" His voice was deep, laced with curiosity and caution.
"Dinner," I returned, attempting to keep my tone light, despite the flutter of nerves in my chest. "I thought we could eat together tonight, like husband and wife."
One brow arched slightly, his face flickering with skepticism. For a moment, I thought he might sit, but instead, he shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the chair.
"I've already eaten at the office," he replied neutrally enough.
Disappointment coiled tightly in my chest. "Ethan, please," I said softly, imploring. "Just stay for a little while."
He paused, his gaze locking onto mine. The intensity of his eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
"I'm tired, Lila," he said finally, his tone quieter but no less final. "It's been a long day."
With that, he turned and vanished into his study, the door shut behind him with a click.
I stood there, staring at the opposite chair, empty across the table while candlelight danced mockingly on the walls. I fell back in my chair, staring down at the untouched plates of food before us. His absence weighed sharp and unyielding upon me.
The days blurred by in a haze of determination and quiet frustration, headlong into every endeavor that would catch Ethan's eye and remind him that I wasn't some obligation he had in his life.
One morning, I had the kitchen staff prepare for him a sleek, gourmet lunch to take to the office. When he came downstairs, adjusting his cufflinks, I intercepted him at the front door.
"I packed this for you," I said, holding out the black container.
He hesitated, and his hand touched mine when he took it. That light touch sent sparks across my skin.
"You didn't have to do this," he said, his voice more gentle than I was used to.
"I wanted to," I said, my cheeks warming under his regard. "I thought it would make your day a little easier at least."
For a fleeting instance, his expression relaxed. His eyes held mine, and silently, something passed between us-an understanding, perhaps, or, rather, curiosity.
"Thanks," he said quietly but before he could step out the door,I held his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek.
He stared at me with curiosity in his eyes, then he gave me a small smile and left.
That little chink in his armor was all I needed to keep going.
But for every step forward, there were two steps back.
Late one evening as I passed his study, I heard his voice through the partially open door, and it was sharp, clipped, unmistakably irritated.
"I told you, I have no time for this," he said. "No, I'm not playing house. Yes, I know what's expected of me, but don't expect to change me because of it."
I froze, and my heart plummeted as every word was like a cut that neatly sliced through me.
"I'll fix it," he added. "Just let me do it my own way."
The chair creaked, and I scurried down the hall, hugging the wall, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. But his words stayed with me, echoing in my mind long after I had closed the bedroom door behind me.
By the end of the week, I was stumped. There was nothing I did that got through to Ethan. As unapproachable as I always found him, his words were polite but impersonal. Yet even in his coldness, brief, electric moments hung between us with the thrum of something spoken and unspoken.
One evening, as I sat by the bay window in our bedroom and looked out into the garden shrouded by darkness, with the slight humming of crickets, I felt empty and unloved.
I recalled the day I first met Ethan, how aloof he was but he had something, some spark within him, the way he carried himself and the intensity in the way he stared at me, it stopped my breath. That alone had sufficed to keep me trusting in the after of us.
But now, as I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, I couldn't help but wonder if this all had been some sort of mirage.
Still, I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
The next morning when Ethan came downstairs for breakfast, I greeted him with a smile as warm as I could muster.
"I hope you have a good day," I said as he picked up his briefcase.
He was silent for a moment, his eyes still on me. "Thank you," he said in a low tone.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
And for now, something was enough.