The rain returned that evening, light at first, then heavier, tapping insistently against the tall windows of the mansion. I stood by one of them in the east corridor, watching the drops trail down the glass like quiet confessions. The house felt different tonight—less hostile, though no less dangerous. Or maybe it was simply that I was beginning to understand its rhythm.
Adrian hadn't spoken much since our encounter earlier. That alone unsettled me more than threats ever could. Silence, when wielded by a man like him, was rarely accidental.
Dinner was served later than usual. The long table felt even longer tonight, the space between us heavy with everything unsaid. Candlelight softened his features, stealing some of the sharpness from his expression. For the first time since the wedding, I noticed the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that came not from lack of sleep, but from carrying too much for too long.
"You're quiet," I said eventually, breaking the silence.
He glanced up, clearly surprised. "So are you."
I shrugged lightly. "I didn't realize silence was contagious."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "You have a habit of saying unexpected things."
"I could say the same about you."
That earned a low breath of laughter. Real this time. Uncontrolled. It startled both of us.
For a moment, the tension eased. Not disappeared—never that—but loosened, like a knot given just enough slack to breathe.
After dinner, Adrian dismissed the servants earlier than usual. That alone set my nerves on edge. I followed him into the smaller sitting room adjacent to the library, a space I hadn't spent much time in yet. It was warmer, more intimate, with deep leather chairs and shelves filled not with ledgers, but novels—classics, histories, even poetry.
I stopped short.
"You read these?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
He poured himself a drink, then paused. "Does that disappoint you?"
"No," I said quickly. "It just… humanizes you."
He turned slowly, studying me. "Careful, Elise. You might start seeing things you're not prepared for."
I met his gaze. "Or maybe you're the one not prepared to be seen."
The air shifted again. Not sharp this time. Something quieter. He sat, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitated only a moment before taking the chair across from him.
"You're not what I expected," he said after a long pause.
I gave a soft laugh. "Neither are you."
"Most people come into my life wanting something," he continued. "Power. Protection. Money. You came in… already prepared for war."
I didn't deny it. "Some of us don't get the luxury of peace."
His fingers tightened slightly around his glass. "No," he said quietly. "We don't."
That was the moment. The first real crack.
I saw it then—not weakness, but weariness. A man who had built walls so high he'd forgotten what it felt like to rest without watching his back. A man who had learned, the hard way, that control was safer than trust.
"What happened to you?" I asked softly, before I could stop myself.
His eyes snapped to mine. For a split second, I thought I'd crossed a line. But instead of anger, I saw something else. Hesitation.
"People don't usually ask me that," he said.
"I'm not people," I replied. "I'm your wife. Even if neither of us asked for it."
Silence stretched between us, thick but not hostile.
"My mother died when I was young," he said finally. "Poisoned. Slowly. By someone who smiled at her every day."
My breath caught.
"My father taught me two things after that," he continued. "Never depend on anyone. And never let your guard down. Love, he said, was just another vulnerability."
I swallowed. "Do you believe him?"
His gaze searched mine, as if the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit. "I did," he said. "Until you."
The admission landed between us like a dropped glass—fragile, dangerous.
"I didn't come here to change you," I said carefully. "I came here because I had no choice."
"And yet," he murmured, "you're doing exactly that."
He stood abruptly, pacing the room once before stopping in front of me. He was close now—too close—but for the first time, it didn't feel like a threat.
"This changes nothing," he said quietly. "Don't mistake honesty for surrender."
"I wouldn't dare," I replied. "But honesty… it matters."
His eyes softened, just slightly. "You're dangerous, Elise."
"So are you," I said.
This time, he smiled. Not sharp. Not cruel. Real.
When he stepped back, the distance felt heavier than the closeness had.
That night, as I lay in bed, I realized something that unsettled me more than any threat or secret.
For the first time since the wedding, I wasn't plotting his downfall.
I was wondering what it would feel like to stand beside him—not as an enemy, but as an equal.
And that realization frightened me more than revenge ever had.