Two days passed quietly inside Ravenhurst Manor, yet Adrian never appeared.
Ara moved through the mansion's vast halls, filling the silence however she could. She wandered the gardens, planting flower seeds the maids had brought, or sat in the sitting room, letting movies flicker on the screen while her mind drifted elsewhere.
But every night, she waited. And every night, disappointment sank deeper.
On the third evening, after dinner, she resigned herself to another empty night. She had just turned toward the master bedroom when the heavy front doors opened.
Her steps froze.
Adrian entered.
Relief surged through her chest—only to vanish in an instant. He wasn't alone.
He leaned heavily on the shoulder of a man she had never seen before. Adrian's tall frame was drained of strength, his movements slow, his face pale.
Ara's brows drew together. She knew Adrian's circle—powerful businessmen, aristocrats, politicians, even mafia figures whose names carried weight. But this man was not among them.
The stranger's presence was striking. He wore a long, high-collared coat that swept past his knees, tailored with sharp elegance. His features were refined, but there was a quiet danger in the way he carried himself, a darker aura than even the feared men who walked in Adrian's world.
For a moment, Ara faltered, caught in the force of it.
Then instinct jolted her forward. She moved to Adrian's side, reaching out—only for the stranger to brush past her without a glance.
Heat burned in her chest. This was her home. Her husband. And yet a stranger dismissed her as though she didn't exist.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she followed them up the stairs.
Two days passed quietly inside Ravenhurst Manor, and still, there was no sign of Adrian.
Ara wandered the sprawling mansion restlessly, her footsteps echoing through its cavernous halls. Sometimes, she escaped to the gardens, kneeling in the soil as she pressed seeds into the earth, letting her hands work while her mind stayed elsewhere. Other times, she sank into the velvet cushions of the sitting room, letting movies flicker on the screen. Yet even then, her thoughts strayed, circling endlessly around the man who had yet to return.
The manor was grand, but without him, it felt empty. The silence was thick, almost alive, and each passing hour made it harder to breathe.
By the third evening, her patience had thinned to threads. Dinner ended with the quiet clink of silver against porcelain, and Ara rose from her seat with a faint sigh. She had already resigned herself to another night without him.
But as she turned toward the stairs, the heavy front doors creaked open.
Her steps halted.
Adrian.
Relief burst inside her chest—sharp, overwhelming, almost enough to bring her to tears. But the feeling faltered the moment she saw him properly.
He wasn't alone.
Adrian's tall frame leaned heavily on the shoulder of another man, his strength drained, his expression unreadable. His movements were sluggish, his body unsteady, as though it cost him everything to stand upright.
Ara's eyes narrowed. She knew Adrian's world well enough—his allies, his enemies, those who orbited him like shadows. Wealthy businessmen, cold-eyed aristocrats, politicians whose smiles hid knives, even mafia figures whose names alone stirred fear. But this man? She had never seen him.
The stranger was arresting in appearance. He wore a long, high-collared coat that swept past his knees, its fabric dark and cut with sharp precision. His features were strikingly refined, but there was nothing soft about him. His aura was darker, sharper, a controlled danger that clung to him like a second skin. It was the kind of presence that unsettled the air, commanding attention without asking for it.
For a moment, Ara found herself staring, caught in the sheer weight of his presence.
Then her instincts snapped her back. She rushed forward, reaching to steady Adrian, her heart leaping to his side.
But the stranger didn't even acknowledge her. He shifted Adrian's weight against his shoulder and walked past her as though she weren't even there.
Heat flared in her chest, indignation biting at her composure. This was her home. Her husband. And yet she was being ignored—by a stranger under her own roof.
Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
"Hah… unbelievable," she thought, her jaw tightening as she trailed after them.
The stranger's stride was steady, confident, every step carrying him further into the manor. Without hesitation, he ascended the staircase, heading directly toward the master bedroom.
Ara's voice rang sharply behind him, her words laced with disbelief.
"Mr. Stranger—how do you even know where our bedroom is?"
Still, he gave no answer. He moved with certainty, as though the house itself bowed to his will, as though he belonged here more than she did.
Her frown deepened, irritation simmering just beneath her skin.
The man pushed open the doors to the master bedroom and carried Adrian to the bed. With precise movements, he settled him down, his composure never faltering. He stripped away Adrian's ruined clothes—garments torn and dirtied, as though he had fought his way through fire and steel—and for the first time, Ara's breath caught.
He returned moments later with a damp towel, his motions calm, practiced. Each movement was deliberate: the steady wipe of the towel, the quiet efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. He handled Adrian carefully, almost respectfully, before finally covering him with a blanket.
Ara stood at the side, silent, her fists curling against the fabric of her dress. It should have been her. She should have been the one tending to him, sitting at his side. But she had done nothing—she had only watched as a stranger cared for her husband with the intimacy of long practice.
The man finally straightened, his task complete. He turned to her at last.
His eyes, cold and unreadable, locked with hers. When he spoke, his voice was calm, low, but each word was weighted with quiet command.
"You should sleep in your own room until he wakes."
Ara froze. For a moment, she simply stared, caught off guard by the authority in his tone. But the shock quickly burned away, replaced by something hotter, sharper.
Her chin lifted, and she stepped closer to the bed.
"No," she said firmly, her voice cutting through the still air. "He is my husband. I'll stay right here with him. You have no right to tell me otherwise."
The room stilled. Her words hung between them, sharp as glass, pressing against the stranger's unyielding gaze.