He Made Me Pay for Five Years; Now He Regrets

Chapter nine

Mason's POV

Charlotte's first dinner back at Hill Manor was quieter than I expected.

I had imagined many different reactions from her after returning. I thought she might be angry, bitter, or perhaps even cold toward everyone around her. After everything she had been through, I would have understood if she came back carrying resentment.

But she showed none. Instead, she sat quietly at the far end of the dining table, almost as if she was afraid of taking up too much space, her head remained lowered as she slowly ate her food, barely speaking to anyone. She didn't try to start a conversation, complain about anything, or ask for special treatment.

She just sat there, quietly existing among people who were once the center of her world. And for some reason, that bothered me more than her anger would have.

I watched her from across the table, unable to stop myself–five years in prison had changed her. The Charlotte I remembered was bright and full of life. She used to laugh easily, and even when things were difficult and always found a way to make the people around her smile.

But the woman sitting in front of me looked completely different. She was thinner than before, almost too thin, and her face had lost its previous softness, and her complexion was pale and tired.

The confidence she once carried seemed to have disappeared and was replaced by a quiet sadness that seemed to follow her everywhere.

My eyes moved to the scar on her face–the one from the fire, and a memory flashed through my mind before I could stop it: the day I found out she had been injured, the day I went to see her while she was unconscious.

She had been lying there, surrounded by machines, looking so fragile that I barely recognized the woman I once knew. I had stood beside her bed for a long time, wanting to say something, wanting to tell her everything I had never been able to say.

But she never knew I was there, she never knew how many times I visited and how many nights I stood outside that hospital room, and couldn't make myself leave.

Too much had happened between us then–too much pain, misunderstandings, and so many things I did not know how to forgive.

But seeing her now, sitting silently at my table, I felt something I had not expected–Pain, a quiet, uncomfortable ache in my chest.

I quickly looked away and reminded myself that this was not the same Charlotte I used to love. She was the person who had caused me the greatest pain in my life, the person responsible for losing Nerissa.

But no matter how much I tried to hold onto that anger, seeing her like this made it difficult.

A maid approached Charlotte and leaned slightly closer to her. "Miss Charlotte, would you like borscht or potato soup?"

Charlotte did not respond and the maid waited. "Miss Charlotte?"

Charlotte continued staring at her plate.

I frowned. Something felt wrong.

The maid had spoken clearly enough. Charlotte was not ignoring her intentionally, It was as if she genuinely had not heard.

I watched her carefully. Was something wrong with her ear?

I remembered hearing about the injuries she suffered in prison, but I had never asked for details. Maybe I did not want to know because knowing would force me to face the reality of what she had endured.

A knot had already started to form in my chest when Charlotte lifted her head, blinking as if she was only just emerging from somewhere far away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t catch that. What did you ask?”

The maid repeated the question, and Charlotte answered quietly. "Potato soup, please."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. So it wasn’t that. Her hearing was fine–wherever she had gone just then, it was somewhere in her own head, and not some injury I hadn’t known about.

Still, my gaze stayed on her. Whatever had pulled her that far away from the room and deep into her thoughts worried me almost as much as the alternative would have. I lowered my gaze, as a strange heaviness settled over me.

Before I could think about it any further, Grace suddenly entered the dining room and my expression softened immediately when I saw her. "Grace, come here."

She grinned and came straight toward me. Charlotte’s head came up the moment she saw her daughter, and for a second something flickered there–hope, small and fragile.

I knew that look because I had seen it many times before. She wanted Grace to come to her and she wanted her daughter to choose her.

And honestly, I wanted that too. No matter what had happened between Charlotte and me, Grace deserved to have a relationship with her biological mother.

“Do you want to sit by Mommy?” I asked her, expecting Charlotte’s face to light up.

But the moment the words left my mouth, Grace shook her head. "No." Instead, Grace shook her head. “No.” She grabbed a fistful of my shirt and looked past me toward Sophia. “I want to sit with Daddy and Aunt Sophia.”

She didn’t mean anything by it–she was just choosing who felt safe. But the small light that had appeared in her eyes disappeared almost instantly.

She lowered her gaze again and quietly returned to her food and my heart tightened. Not because I’d forgotten what happened between us or because the hurt was gone. But she was still Grace’s mother, and no mother should have to watch her own child turn away from her.

Dinner continued after that, but the atmosphere became heavier. Charlotte remained quiet throughout the rest of the meal, and just when I thought dinner was about to end, she suddenly looked up.

"Mason?”

I turned toward her. "Yes?"

She hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you know where my cello is?"

The question caught me off guard. I remembered that cello–It had been a gift from her teacher, someone who had meant a lot to her. Charlotte had treasured that cello more than almost anything else she owned.

Before she went to prison, she would spend hours playing it–whenever she was stressed or upset, music was the place she escaped to. I knew how important it was to her, but I had no idea where it was now.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, then turned to Olivia. “Do you know where Charlotte’s cello is?”

The moment I asked, Olivia's expression changed–It was small, but I noticed. Then she answered casually. "I threw it away a long time ago."

The dining room suddenly became silent.

Charlotte stared at her. "You... threw it away?"

Olivia shrugged. "It was old. I didn't think you would need it anymore."

Charlotte’s face was drained of color. She didn’t say a word–she just sat there, staring at Olivia as if she was trying to understand what she had heard.

I knew that cello was not just an object–It was a memory, a connection to someone she had loved and lost.

My chest tightened when I saw her eyes go glassy. She blinked hard and dropped her head, trying to pass it off as nothing, but I saw it– I saw exactly how much it cost her.

I saw how much it hurt her. And for the first time that night, it hit me how much she’d actually lost. She had lost five years of her life, her daughter and her place in this family. And now, even the things that once belonged to her were gone.

I looked at her silently, unable to explain the feeling inside me because part of me wanted to reach across the table and tell her I was sorry. But another part of me still remembered the pain she had caused.

And I did not know which feeling was stronger anymore.