As it turned out, Marcus had spent most of the night tossing and turning restlessly on his makeshift floor bed, unable to achieve anything resembling genuine sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, that image seared itself across his consciousness—the glaring patch of purple-and-yellow bruising encircling Elena's right eye, vivid and accusatory.
The longer he dwelt on it, the more intolerable the situation became. Each additional day that injury remained visible would likely calcify her hatred another degree deeper, adding another layer to the wall of hostility between them.
So before dawn had properly broken, while the sky still held that gray pre-morning quality, he'd quietly extracted himself from his blanket cocoon and begun searching the bedroom for medical supplies.
Fortunately—if you could call any aspect of Elena's situation "fortunate"—her chronic poor health and the persistent bullying she endured at university meant the household maintained a well-stocked inventory of various trauma medications and first-aid supplies.
He also had the household manager Sophia to thank. Even when gently roused from sleep in the middle of the night by Marcus's whispered request, she'd immediately assisted him in locating the most effective blood circulation and bruise reduction ointment available, offering no complaint whatsoever about the inconvenient hour.
Now, in the fragile pre-dawn light, Marcus sat perched carefully on the edge of the bed. He dipped his fingertip into the cool medicinal paste and applied it to Elena's injured eye with extraordinary gentleness—each touch feather-light and painstakingly careful, as though he were restoring a priceless antiquity rather than treating a simple contusion.
"It's fortunate you returned home, Young Master," Sophia had murmured earlier as she handed over the white jade container of premium ointment, her voice soft and laden with maternal concern. "Otherwise, when Miss Elena sustains injuries, she absolutely refuses to permit any of us to treat them."
Marcus had accepted the cool jade container with some surprise. "Why would she do that?"
Sophia had sighed, her expression carrying profound helplessness mixed with genuine pity. "Miss Elena has stated that she wants to remember every scar. To remember each person who caused her pain and suffering."
Her voice had dropped even lower. "She says she cannot allow herself to forget the pain once wounds heal. So unless an injury involves broken skin or active bleeding, she deliberately leaves bruises untreated, allowing them to fade naturally over time. She wants the reminder."
"..." Marcus had found himself momentarily speechless. She was ruthless—even toward herself. Especially toward herself, perhaps. He couldn't help but develop a new, more complex understanding of the seemingly fragile young woman currently occupying that bed.
After thanking Sophia, Marcus had returned to the darkened bedroom. The eastern sky had begun showing the first pale belly of approaching dawn, delicate colors bleeding upward from the horizon.
He hadn't dared activate the overhead lights, worried that harsh illumination would startle Elena from whatever fragile sleep she'd managed to achieve. Instead, working by the faint glow of approaching sunrise, he'd carefully studied the medication instructions, then methodically mixed the ointment with its accompanying soothing essential oil in a small ceramic dish.
The resulting paste carried a slightly pungent medicinal scent—sharp and clinical—cut through with the gentler herbal notes of the essential oil blend.
He'd glanced toward the bed, taking in the small figure curled there. Elena looked impossibly, heartbreakingly small—a tiny bundle of humanity nearly swallowed by the oversized pillow and luxurious bedding. Only her smooth forehead and tightly closed eyes remained visible above the covers. Her long lashes rested against her cheeks like miniature fans, casting delicate crescent shadows beneath her eyes.
Her breathing had been shallow and nearly soundless—the perfect opportunity to apply treatment while she remained unconscious and unaware.
Marcus had held his breath, lifted the small dish of prepared medicine, and approached the bedside with exaggerated feline stealth. He'd lowered himself onto the mattress edge with glacial slowness, terrified of creating enough movement to wake her.
The expensive mattress had yielded softly beneath his weight—the sensation was incomparably more comfortable than his floor arrangement, he'd noted with mild resentment.
He'd carefully dipped a cotton swab into the dark green paste, leaned closer, and only then could he properly assess the horrifying extent of damage marring her delicate features. The bruising spread in ugly gradients of purple, yellow, and sickly green across her orbital bone.
"How could you have hit this hard..." The words had emerged as barely audible self-directed muttering, laced with genuine dismay. His fingertip had guided the cotton swab with the approximate pressure of a falling feather, gently dabbing the paste onto the area above her cheekbone where the discoloration appeared most severe.
The moment that cool ointment had made contact with her skin, Elena's slender lashes had trembled with microscopic movement—even in sleep, her body registered the sensation. Her delicate brows had drawn together in the tiniest frown, and a faint sound had escaped her lips—something between a whimper and a sigh, clearly expressing discomfort.
Marcus's hand had frozen instantly. Had he hurt her? Was he applying too much pressure?
Acting on pure instinct rather than conscious decision, he'd leaned even closer and blown several extremely soft, slow breaths across the freshly medicated area. The warm air current had ghosted across her skin with gentle insistence.
It was what adults had always done when he'd fallen and scraped his knees as a child—that universal gesture of comfort. Blow on it and the pain goes away.
This proximity—carrying his body warmth and that faint breath of air—had finally made it impossible for Elena to maintain her sleeping charade any longer.
Her eyes had opened slowly, and she'd found herself staring directly into a pair of dark, luminous eyes positioned mere inches from her own face.
Marcus's face hovered so close she could have counted his eyelashes. She could see her own reflection miniaturized in his pupils, could read the focused concentration written across his features.
Seeing her consciousness return, Marcus had ceased his gentle blowing and retreated slightly—not far, but enough to be less invasive. His tone had been carefully casual: "Oh, you're awake?"
Elena's gaze had immediately gone cold as arctic ice. She'd jerked her head to the side, wrenching herself away from his proximity. The lingering psychological residue of her nightmare—Marcus forcing an aggressive kiss that tasted of tobacco and cheap liquor, suffocating her, trapping her—hadn't yet dissipated. His closeness in waking reality triggered visceral revulsion.
"What are you doing?" Her voice emerged hoarse from sleep and sharp with defensive wariness.
"Applying medicine to your injury." Marcus had held up the cotton swab as evidence.
Elena had immediately raised her own hand toward her face, clearly intending to touch the bruised area herself, but Marcus had intercepted the movement with a gentle block from his wrist. "Hey, careful—don't touch it yet. I just applied fresh ointment. If you rub it off, the treatment won't be effective."
She'd paused, suspended in that moment of indecision. A flicker of doubt had crossed her eyes—those expressive, liquid eyes that seemed to shift between vulnerability and suspicion moment by moment. Then that brief uncertainty had hardened back into direct, penetrating scrutiny. Her tone had turned mocking:
"False kindness. Performative concern. Who exactly is this display intended to impress?" The subtext was clear: Since you were the one who struck me in the first place, why bother with this pretense of solicitude now?
Marcus had released a heavy, theatrical sigh, attempting to project regretful sincerity. "Last night... I genuinely didn't intend for that to happen. I'd consumed far too much alcohol. My judgment was severely impaired."
Elena's response had been a cold, humorless laugh. "But you also explicitly stated your intention to bring other women back here and perform sexual acts in front of me. To humiliate me deliberately." She'd emphasized those particular words with cutting precision.
Marcus had felt internal misery flood through him. Heaven knows I didn't say that vile shit! "Those were drunken ravings—meaningless garbage that came out of my mouth when I wasn't in control. Look—I came back home, didn't I? I didn't go anywhere else. I stayed."
Elena had produced an extremely faint sound through her nose—something between a scoff and a sneer. The noise had been crisp but carried bone-penetrating coldness, particularly noticeable in the quiet morning atmosphere.
"If it weren't for Grandfather's condition... I would file for divorce this very morning. Immediately. Without hesitation."
Marcus had felt a small measure of tension release in his chest. He knew the relevant context: Elena's grandfather was gravely, perhaps terminally ill. Multiple parties were circling the family business like vultures eyeing wounded prey. Her position—along with that of her mentally unstable older sister—remained precarious and vulnerable. This marriage served largely to ease the dying patriarch's mind and provide Elena with nominal masculine "protection" to help stabilize an increasingly unstable situation.
"Exactly," he'd agreed quickly, injecting earnest concern into his tone. "We absolutely cannot add to the old man's worries with our personal conflicts. University classes resume in just a few days, and isn't your grandfather planning to come see you off? You cannot possibly face him with such visible facial trauma."
Those few carefully chosen words had apparently struck directly at Elena's most vulnerable pressure point. Her lips had pursed almost imperceptibly, and her long lashes had swept downward, casting beautiful fan-shaped shadows across her pale cheeks.
Observing her defensive posture soften fractionally, Marcus had retrieved the cotton swab and spoken with deliberate gentleness: "The medicine will feel cold initially. Try to bear with the discomfort."
Elena had closed her eyes, her small chin tilting upward in subtle degrees—a posture that communicated tacit permission to continue.
"I haven't forgiven you." She'd bitten her lower lip, voice dropping low but remaining firm. "This does not constitute absolution."
"I know." Marcus had carefully dabbed around her orbital socket with the medicated swab, ensuring the ointment spread evenly across every inch of discolored tissue. "I understand that completely."
Elena had continued speaking, eyes still closed: "Once Grandfather's health stabilizes sufficiently and circumstances permit it, we will proceed with an amicable divorce settlement. Don't concern yourself about compensation—I'll ensure you receive half of all marital assets. You won't have wasted your time on this arrangement."
Marcus had nearly snorted aloud. I'd be grateful if you left me with a complete corpse to bury, and you think I have the audacity to scheme for your family fortune? He'd suppressed the sarcastic internal commentary and adopted an expression of studied profundity. "I'm not pursuing this relationship for financial gain."
"Then what do you want?" Elena had opened her eyes, red lips parting slightly as her gaze shot toward him with laser precision—searching, scrutinizing, genuinely confused.
"I..." Marcus had paused with theatrical timing, working to inject visible "deep emotion" into his expression. "Elena, have you forgotten the vows we exchanged at our wedding? We made promises to each other—to genuinely cultivate our relationship, to provide mutual support, to weather future adversity together as partners."
Weather future storms? Elena's thoughts had been acidic. Aren't you the primary storm I need protection from?
She'd maintained silence for several long moments before responding, voice cold and unyielding: "After yesterday's events, trust is no longer something I can offer you. That bridge has been burned."
"Trust or distrust—" Marcus had continued lying with absolutely shameless confidence, even taking the opportunity to naturally extend his hand toward her face. His fingertips had made gentle contact with a stray lock of hair falling across her forehead, brushing it aside. His thumb had grazed her cool skin with gossamer lightness—barely there, almost imperceptible. "—but you must believe this fundamental truth: my feelings toward you are genuine and sincere."
Elena's entire body had gone rigid from that unexpected touch. She'd instinctively recoiled slightly, shrinking back as her eyes lifted to meet his with renewed suspicion.
"Your hair was obscuring the injury site," Marcus had explained without missing a beat, his expression remaining perfectly neutral and practical. "It was interfering with proper medicine application."
In the strengthening morning light, his eyes had managed to project an almost convincing facsimile of earnest sincerity.