Days have passed by in a blur. The sound of rain tapped softly against the tall windows of Reinhardt's study. Books lined the walls, and the fire burned low. Reinhardt sat in a leather chair, staring at a glass of dark whiskey in his hand. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes distant.
He hadn't spoken to Aeliana since the day after the wedding. Not a word. Not even when she walked into the breakfast room with the confidence of a noble wife.
She was too calm and composed. He didn't know what to make of her.
But now, alone in the silence of his study, his walls broke. He closed his eyes and leaned back. He did not even notice that he had fallen asleep.
The nightmare came fast.
Gunfire.
Screams.
Chaos.
The smell of burning rubber. Reinhardt sat in the backseat of a black car. The window was shattered, and the driver slumped over the wheel. Carmela was beside him, her voice panicked but firm, her eyes clear.
"Stay down!" she shouted, pushing him to the floor.
Another shot.
Pain in his shoulder.
Her hand was on his chest.
The smell of blood.
"No! Carmela!"
She smiled, just once, and then the light in her eyes faded. The final breath left her lips as her body slumped forward. She had taken the bullet meant for him.
Reinhardt woke with a jolt, his shirt soaked in sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, his breathing shaky and uneven. He sat up quickly, eyes wide, but the study was still the same, quiet and cold. He was all alone.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. He reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured another glass. Then another. Hours passed in fragile silence. The rain outside didn't stop.
Aeliana strolled down the long hallway of the mansion. The ceilings were high, and everything was spotless, too perfect for her liking. Her footsteps echoed. She passed rooms with closed doors and staff who barely bowed when they saw her.
One maid even rolled her eyes.
"She's not like Miss Carmela," Aeliana heard one whisper. "No grace at all."
Aeliana said nothing, but she noted it.
In the kitchen, the staff grew silent when she entered. A butler gave her a tight smile. "Do you need something, madam?"
She shook her head. "Just exploring."
"Perhaps stay out of the lower wing. It's reserved for real family," the butler said before turning away.
Real family.
So that's what they thought of her.
She walked away without a word.
Later that afternoon, she found a small library on the second floor. The dust told her no one had used it in a while. She searched through the books, trying to distract herself.
When something caught her eye.
This is...
It was an old magazine, tucked between two novels. The front cover showed a bright photo of Reinhardt and a young woman smiling on a boat. Sunlight touched their hair, and their hands were intertwined.
Carmela.
She was beautiful. Not in a flashy way, but warm and alive. Her smile seemed real.
The title read: "The Power Couple of the Future: Reinhardt Razalo and Carmela Sylvan."
Aeliana sat down and began to read.
They had met at university. Carmela was strong, clever, and kind. She had studied law and was known for standing up for the weak. Reinhardt had been different then, lively, ambitious, full of ideas. They were engaged for two years before her tragic death in what the paper called "a politically motivated attack."
Aeliana stared at the photo again. No wonder everyone still talked about her. No wonder the staff looked at Aeliana like a stranger in the wrong place. She was living in the shadow of a ghost.
A ghost she could never avoid nor escape. That night, Aeliana returned to her room, but something felt off. The hallway was unusually quiet, and as she passed the front stairs, she heard a strange sound, a low groan. She looked down and gasped.
Reinhardt lay near the entrance, half-conscious. His jacket was soaked from the rain, and his face was pale. A half-empty bottle rolled near his hand.
"Reinhardt!" she called, rushing down the stairs.
He didn't answer.
She bent down, touched his shoulder, and gently shook him. "You're freezing."
His eyes opened slightly. "Leave me… Carmela…"
Aeliana froze.
"I'm not Carmela," she whispered.
His eyes widened a little, then his face twisted. He tried to sit up, but failed.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered. "This isn't your home."
She pressed her lips together and helped him sit up anyway. "I'm your wife now, whether you like it or not. I'm not going to let you die at the door."
He tried to push her away, but his strength was gone. His head dropped onto her shoulder.
"I didn't ask for this," he mumbled.
"Neither did I," Aeliana said softly.
With great effort, she got him onto his feet and guided him slowly to a couch in the nearby lounge. She found a blanket and placed it over him. She didn't ask questions. She didn't scold. She simply sat on the armchair across from him and waited. He soon passed out completely.
She stared at him. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed. His hands clenched into fists. His pain was a deep thing, not something that could be fixed overnight, or maybe not at all. Aeliana stood up and walked to the window.
The storm had passed. The sky was dark, and everything outside seemed calm. She crossed her arms. She didn't love him.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But she wasn't weak.
Let them whisper behind her back. Let them compare her to Carmela.
She was Aeliana Torres. She had survived on the streets. She had outsmarted the people who tried to control her. And even if this marriage was deemed to be forever cold and empty, she wouldn't let it break her.
If she had to live in this house, she would find her own space, her own path. Quietly, patiently, like a fire beneath ice. Hidden strength, waiting.
She looked back at Reinhardt one last time, then turned off the light.