Uncle George sank back into the sofa like the weight of the family name had finally won. "What is it?" he asked, already sounding done.
The butler—bless his loyal heart—fidgeted like he was about to announce a funeral. "Sir. Madam. A letter… from Master Tristan."
Melisa didn't move, but her spine did. Just a twitch. A familiar chill slid down her arms like memory had teeth. The runaway groom finally remembered he had family.
Uncle George's face darkened, but Aunt Eleanor, ever the diplomat, reached out. "You can give it to me," she said gently.
The butler escaped with the enthusiasm of a man dodging a bullet.
Aunt Eleanor took the envelope like it might explode. Her lips pinched as she unfolded it. Love for her youngest son, or whatever was left of it, flickered in her eyes. But the worry had finally grown up and turned into disappointment.
"Well?" Uncle George grunted.
She didn't answer right away—just glanced at Melisa, who gave her a polite, neutral expression that said: "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just the wife your son didn't want."
"He's… coming back," Aunt Eleanor said at last. "With Ivonne."
The room stilled.
Uncle George blinked. "With who?"
"He met her on his journey," Eleanor added, as if that explained anything. As if the 'journey' wasn't code for 'disaster.'
Melisa's fingers twitched in her lap. That name—Ivonne.
In the dreams, she arrived much later. Cold smile. Gloved hands. The kind of woman who knew how to make another feel like a footnote. But this? This was early. Too early.
To Olivia, Melisa had always been the tragic side character. If that was true, then Ivonne was the villain with better PR.
Before George could erupt, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
"Who's coming?" a voice called out—lazy, dark.
Leonard.
He stood in the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Aunt Eleanor blinked. "Leo, you're back early?"
"The Shen Group meeting got postponed," he replied, stepping in. "So?"
His eyes swept across the room, pausing at Melisa—like always. Like she was a puzzle piece someone had jammed in the wrong box.
"Tris is coming," Eleanor said softly. "With Ivonne."
Something flickered in Leonard's face. Amusement? Irritation? It vanished before anyone could catch it.
"Wonderful," he said dryly. Then turned and walked away like it was just another Wednesday.
Melisa didn't breathe until his footsteps vanished upstairs. A strange emptiness pooled in her chest, though she couldn't say why. She stared at the tiles, counting the cracks.
Aunt Eleanor's hand found hers. "Don't let it trouble you, dear," she said, but her voice was too soft to reach the ache.
When Melisa finally made it to her room, her thoughts were louder than ever.
Of course Tristan had to come back now, just when things had settled into their new, dysfunctional rhythm. And with Ivonne—whose arrival wasn't just early, it was a declaration.
She opened the door, mind spinning, when—
"Ow—!"
A sharp tug yanked her off balance. Pain flared along her back. She turned—
Leonard.
Of course.
His hand still gripped her wrist, eyes dark, jaw set. Anger painted his features, but beneath it was something worse. Something like hurt.
Was that real?
No. Must be the lighting.
She tried to step back. Bad idea. Wall behind her. Leonard in front. Classic trap.
"You must be happy," he said, voice low. "Your beloved Tristan's finally back."
Melisa blinked. Was he serious?
"I—"
"You think you can waltz around this house looking so pitiful, and I'll play along? Don't forget," he said, voice colder now, "we're a couple. At least, in front of them."
The smile she gave him wasn't sweet—it was survival. "Of course. I wouldn't dare forget."
"Then act like it."
He tugged her into their room without waiting for a reply.
She didn't resist. What was the point? Every word felt like a trap lately.
In the room, Leonard took the couch like he was doing her a favor. Melisa sat on the bed, fingers grazing the sheets. It was all too much. Too loud inside her head. Too quiet outside.
He turned his back on her. Melisa watched the rise and fall of his shoulders.
She wanted to ask—about the things unsaid. About the way he looked at her like she'd committed a crime and he'd forgotten the name of it. But she didn't.
Because maybe she didn't want to hear his answers.
He slept badly. The couch creaked every time he shifted. She watched him from the corner of her eye.
It wasn't pity. Not exactly.
Eventually, her eyes grew heavy. Sleep—rare, brittle—finally arrived.
She didn't know this stretch of dreamless sleep would be the start of something. A slow easing. Like the silence itself had taken her in.
The nightmares, so vivid until now, stayed away. Just for one night.
But even as her mind floated, her body betrayed her.
Her pale face twitched, sweat dampening her hairline. Her fists clenched the bedsheets like they owed her something. A frown etched deep into her brows, like even sleep couldn't soothe what was buried beneath her skin.
Across the room, Leonard watched.
Eyes open.
And for once, he didn't say anything.