Tear the Alpha's Vow

Chapter 6 — The Night and the Phone

Nicholas took my hand as soon as the door closed. “I'm sorry," he said. “I shouldn't have left you alone at the reception. I was too worried about Victoria. You being kind to her—thank you."

My fingers stayed still. “You were afraid she'd fall. I understand."

“I'm trying to handle this the right way," he said. “I don't want you hurt."

“Start with the truth," I said. “But not tonight. I'm tired."

Relief softened his face. “We'll talk tomorrow. I want us to be all right."

He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles, a habit he wanted back. The touch pulled up what I had lived before and refused to forget.

In my last life, after Victoria died, he told me none of it was my fault. Then he stopped touching me. For months the bed stayed cold. We ate in silence. If I offered help, he called it noise. If I withdrew, he called it guilt. He walked past me like I wasn't there. I learned to sleep on the edge of the mattress and count ceiling lines until morning. That was marriage: rooms, rules, distance.

Now Victoria was asleep under my roof, and he wanted closeness, as if nothing were cracked. I didn't want a fight. I wanted air.

“I need a bath," I said, pulling my hand free. “I'll be quick."

He nodded. “I'll wait."

Steam rose. I braced my hands on the sink, then scrubbed the places he had touched—wrists, cheek, collarbone—until the skin went pink. Not for hygiene. I just needed the contact gone.

When I came out, my hair was damp and my robe clung to my shoulders. Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed. “You look tired," he said. “Lie down."

“In a minute." I cracked the window. Cold air cut the sweet scent of the wedding cake. I breathed once and let it clear my head.

He took out his phone. The glow lit his face. He scrolled the way people scroll when they already know what they'll find.

“Everything all right?" he asked.

“Yes," I said. “I'll sleep after I braid my hair."

He relaxed and kept reading. His shoulders loosened in a way they didn't with me. That told me enough.

I sat at the vanity and worked through tangles. I thought of my parents alive right now and of the plain rules I'd set for myself: don't plead, don't beg, don't waste breath on scenes you can't win. Move where it matters.

He set the phone down for a moment. “I meant it," he said. “I was wrong to leave you back there. I'll make it up to you."

“Okay." I tied off the braid. “Let me rest. We can talk in the morning."

He looked at the bed, then at me. “Can I hold you?"

“Not tonight," I said. “I'm cold from the air." It wasn't a fight. It was a simple no. He nodded, disappointment plain.

He lifted the phone again. A new message arrived. The small sound turned my head.

He didn't notice. His mouth softened. Without meaning to, he smiled.

I walked over to blow out the lamp on the nightstand. From a step behind his shoulder, I saw the message on the glass.

I didn't need context. The words were simple.

“I can't sleep. Tonight feels too long. I miss you."

Then a line break. Then the signature.

—V

I didn't make a sound. I didn't ask questions he could twist. I didn't let my breath change. I memorized the last letter on the screen.

I straightened and moved away. My face stayed calm. Once, I would have cried and begged for proof of what I already knew. Not now. I had a fact. That was enough.

He felt me move and glanced back. The screen went dark in a quick, guilty flick. He pocketed the phone and tried for ordinary. “Do you want the window closed?"

“No," I said. “I like the air."

He lay back. I went to my side of the bed and pulled up the blanket. The mattress dipped between us. We stared at the ceiling like strangers sharing a compartment.

I thought about morning: the note to remove lilies from the east room, a quiet talk with my parents before anyone else reached them, the names of two guards who could carry a message without turning it into a show. None of that required a scene tonight.

The glow dropped to black. He set the phone on the table with too much care, pretending nothing was happening. “Good night," he said.

“Good night," I answered.

Before sleep took him, I fixed my own plan: speak to my parents at first light, keep anything with my mother's initials out of reach, ask Lily to note who goes in and out of the study, and make copies of the papers Nicholas keeps in the fourth drawer. No scenes, no shouting. Just steps. If kindness opened a door, I would use it. If calm did, I would use that instead. I wasn't waiting for promises anymore.

He fell asleep. When his breathing steadied, I opened my eyes. The screen lit for a second before going dark. In that flash, I saw the last message again. It was short and ended with the same initial.

—V

I lay back and looked at the ceiling. I didn't need to do anything else. The night had told me what I needed to know.

The last character on the screen was a V.

Before the bath, he tried again. “Diana, please believe me. I care about you."

“I know what caring looks like," I said. “It isn't a speech. It's choices."

That line came from the old months I remembered too well. Back then, caring meant a chair placed between us at dinner, meant Sam carrying messages I should have heard from my husband, meant my schedule controlled by guards who called it protection. It meant my name used in public and ignored in private. On our first winter holiday, he gave me a bracelet in front of the elders and slept in his study that night. When I was sick, he sent the physician but never opened the door. I swallowed that life like medicine I didn't ask for. I won't do it again.

I didn't say all of that out loud. I didn't have to. I went into the bathroom and turned the water hotter. I scrubbed hard because I was sick with the idea of his hands on me while another woman slept down the hall. The heat made my skin sting, and the sting helped.

When I came out, he was quieter. Maybe the steam told him more than I had said. He reached toward me and let his hand fall. “Tomorrow," he repeated, trying to put this day in a box.

“Tomorrow," I said. But my plan was already for morning, not for us, for the people who mattered.

Later, after I saw the first message, I thought of walking to the balcony to catch them if they met. I didn't. I didn't need witnesses or scenes. I needed a clear head. Proof doesn't save you if you stay. A door does.

So I kept still and let the night finish its own sentence.