Heather pushed the door open with heavy, aching arms. The weight of her coat hung off her shoulders like the day itself—exhausting and unwilling to let go.
Every inch of her body hurt, from the long hours, the tension, and the endless stream of unfamiliar voices speaking in polished tones and veiled expectations.
Her heels clicked along the polished marble hallway that led to what the maids had so reverently called "the young master's chambers."
She wanted nothing more than to collapse. Sleep. That was it. Just sleep. But the words kept echoing in her mind, louder with each step.
"You'll be moving into the young master's room. It's tradition."
She had nearly driven a heel into someone's throat at that sentence. The only reason she didn't was because she was too tired to lift her leg high enough.
Her eyelids were already drooping by the time she reached the door. She exhaled slowly, ready to strip off her clothes, take a long shower, and fall into unconsciousness. Her hand reached for the knob.
Then she froze, there was a low persistent hum.
The television was on.
Did someone turn it on? Was someone in here?
Her entire body tensed instinctively.
She stepped into the room, her gaze darting from wall to wall. No one was in sight. The room looked empty.
Only the low buzz of the television playing what seemed to be a event broadcast on mute. Flashes of sequins and smiling faces was on the screen.
Heather frowned. Maybe the maids turned it on.She walked over and grabbed the remote, switching the TV off with a click.
There was another sound, this time, coming from the far end of the hallway.
She turned her head, her heart was thudding in her dress, and she followed the faint rush of air.
The far window was wide open, the curtains dancing gently in the night breeze.
She rushed over and slammed it shut, her breath was shaky, and her hands trembling more than she cared to admit.
Okay. Just a television. Just a window left open. Nothing to panic about—
BZZZT.
The screen flickered back to life.
Heather nearly jumped out of her skin.
She froze where she stood, back against the closed window, staring in disbelief.
She paused for ten seconds...then fifteen, waiting for someone, anyone to come out. But no one came out, she didn't even hear footsteps or a voice.
An intruder? But how would someone break into this place? The estate was practically a military zone.
She exhaled sharply, then kicked off one heel and snatched it up her hand, gripping it like a weapon. She moved with slow, cautious steps, as she limped back into the room; since she was only wearing a pair of the heels.
Still nothing.
Then her eyes landed on the screen. She was on the screen. Miss H on the red carpet, flawless and glowing, captured walking in, as cameras flashed all around her.
She admired herself, but this was no time to admire herself. She reached for the remote again.
"What are you doing?"
She screamed—and threw the shoe without hesitation.
THUD!
A groan followed.
She ran away from the sound, already lunging for the landline.
"There's an intruder in my room—hello? Security!"
As she turned back, ready to check if he was coming after her—and froze.
Her breath left her body all at once. The phone slipped from her hand, but the wires on it kept it from hitting the floor.
He was there. Standing in the room, one hand pressed to his forehead where the heel had struck.
That face.
THAT face.
"YOU!"
He looked up at her with a flat expression, rubbing the side of his temple.
"Do you throw your goddamn shoe at people now?"
"I'll throw the other one, you bastard!" she snapped, already limping toward him on her single heel, her fists clenched and ready.
"What the hell are you doing here? Get out!"
He didn't move or even blink. He just looked at her, calmly, like she was the one who didn't belong.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Don't try to turn this around on me," she shot back. "You're the one who's supposed to be gone."
He tilted his head slightly, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant.
"Why would I leave my own house?"
Heather blinked. Her mouth parted slightly.
"Your…? No. This is my husband's estate."
The words came out sharper than she intended.
Caius's mouth curved, just barely. A smile that wasn't really a smile.
"Right," he said, "The husband."
Her fingers tightened around the phone again.
"I'm giving you three seconds before I call him," she didn't know why she said that. She hadn't even met the husband.
"Go ahead."
His tone didn't change. It was too calm and certain.
She didn't hesitate. She lifted the receiver and called security again.
"There's an intruder in my room. Send someone now."
This time, the guards arrived swiftly, almost immediately. Heather walked to the hallway as they came in.
She pointed directly at him as they entered the room.
"Him. Right there, I want him out!"
The guards stepped into the room, glanced from her to Caius—then looked at themselves. They hesitated.
"Young master." One of them said as they bowed.
Heather turned sharply, her eyes bounced between Caius and the guards. No. No. No.
Her hand dropped slowly. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded. "That's him! That's the guy—"
"You're dismissed," Caius said to the guards.
They turned and left without a word.
She stared after them, still stunned. Heather felt it—the slow crawl of realization, like ice water sliding down her spine. She couldn't even face him. He's the young master... Which means he's also the—she couldn't even say it.
"You're the husband." She barely managed to whisper.
He didn't answer, didn't need to. Instead, he walked calmly to the bar in the corner and poured himself a drink, the soft clink of glass against glass was the only sound left in the room.
"You look like you're going to pass out," he said casually
Heather didn't respond.
She just slid to the floor, her knees folded beneath her like her strength had finally given out. She didn't really care if it looked pathetic. She couldn't even breathe.
And everytime she looked at him, her body weakened. The kind that meant you're too tired to engage; but he was still standing there.
She had spent years learning how to erase Caius from her life. The first few months were the hardest—his name still sat heavy on her tongue. She had convinced herself that she hated him, that it was pure loathing—not grief or loss, just hate.
And now—
Here he was, sitting in this room, looking at her like nothing had ever happened.
Classic.