She doesn't leave. Just stands there, studying me with those sharp, knowing eyes.
"Something else?" I ask, more curtly than I mean to. But this house is mine now, after all, and Mrs. Brady is staff. I’m not accustomed to thinking of anyone that way, but maybe I’m going to have to, if I’m going to survive this.
If I’m going to help Maeve survive it, too.
"That girl has been through more than anyone her age should have to endure," she says quietly. "Her father, her siblings… she's lost everyone."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" She steps into the room. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's lost one more person. The man who's supposed to protect her."
My jaw clenches. "I'm not?—"
"I don't care what arrangement the Council forced on you both," she interrupts. "I don't care if you wanted this marriage or not. But that girl deserves better than to be treated like a burden."
She's right. I know she's right. But knowing it doesn't help.
"I'll be there in a minute," I say flatly. It’s a dismissal, and I can see that the housekeeper knows it.
Mrs. Brady holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods and leaves.
I sit there for another thirty seconds, trying to get my shit together. Trying to figure out how the fuck I'm supposed to be a husband when I can barely function as a human being.
Finally, I push back from the desk and head to the dining room.
—
When I walkin a few minutes later, Maeve is already seated at one end of a table that could easily seat twenty. She looks small. Fragile. Lost in this enormous room with its crystal chandelier and formal place settings. She’s sitting to the right of the head of the table, and I’m briefly confused until I realize that, of course, I’m supposed to fucking sit there.
She doesn't look up when I enter.
I take the seat across from her. She looks up. “You’re supposed to sit there,” she says flatly, motioning to the seat next to her. I shrug.
“I’d rather sit here.”
Her mouth thins. I see something flicker in her eyes, but I can’t read what it is. Finally, she shrugs too. “Fine,” she says, and drops her gaze to her plate.
A young woman comes in a moment later, dressed in black, and brings us each a bowl of hot soup—French onion, I think, from the scent. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since dinner last night. The woman sets down a bowl in front of each of us, fills our water glasses, and steps back.
"Thank you, Claire," Maeve says softly.
Claire nods and disappears out of the room. We start to eat in silence—or rather, Maeve stares at her soup while I mechanically chew and swallow without tasting anything. I’m pretty sure it’s fucking delicious, but I can’t focus on anything except how wan and miserable my bride looks sitting across from me.
This is unsustainable—this cold war between us, this careful distance. But I don't know how to bridge it without making things worse.
"I was looking at the estate documents," I finally say.
She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "Oh?"
"There's a lot here. Properties, investments, business holdings." I set down my spoon. "Did your father ever discuss any of it with you?"
Her expression shuts down. "No."
"Nothing? Not even basics about the family business?"
"I wasn't supposed to worry about those things." Her voice is tight. "I was supposed to be… decorative. Groomed for marriage, when the time was right."
My jaw tightens. "That's fucking ridiculous."
