CHAPTER FOUR
970 Words
Elena woke before dawn, her sheets tangled around her legs like chains. She had slept, but only in fragments, each dream tinted with the same image: Colin’s eyes on hers in the garden, his lips shaping her name as though it belonged to him.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady the hammering rhythm beneath her ribs. It was madness. She was Alexander’s wife, mistress of the Templeton estate, bound by vows and appearances. Yet no amount of reasoning could erase the warmth she had felt in that fleeting moment — the warmth she hadn’t known in years of marriage.
By the time the sun spilled pale light into the bedroom, the other side of the bed was empty, cold. Alexander hadn’t come home. Again.
Elena rose, dressing in silence. When she descended to the dining room, the clatter of dishes and the hum of low voices greeted her. Alexander sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his tie already loosened, a glass of brandy in his hand though it was barely past eight in the morning.
Beside him sat Stephanie Lane.
Elena froze. The mistress didn’t even bother with subtlety anymore. Stephanie’s scarlet lips curved into a victorious smile as she leaned across Alexander, feeding him a bite of fruit from her own fingers.
“You’re up early,” Alexander said lazily, his eyes flicking over Elena without warmth. “Did you sleep well?”
Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she lied.
Stephanie’s laughter chimed like glass. “You always look so pale in the mornings, Elena. Perhaps you should spend more time outdoors. Fresh air does wonders.”
The jab landed, sharp and deliberate. Elena’s gaze shifted briefly, her chest constricting, but she said nothing. She had long ago learned that protesting only gave them more fuel.
She picked at her plate in silence, each bite turning to ash in her mouth, until she couldn’t bear another second. Rising quietly, she excused herself, leaving Alexander and Stephanie to their morning performance of love and mockery.
⸻
The mansion stretched around her, vast and silent. Once, she had thought it would feel like a castle. Now it was a prison. The rooms echoed with loneliness, the gilded frames on the walls mocking her with frozen smiles of ancestors who had probably known more love in their cold portraits than she ever had in her marriage.
By noon, the air inside felt suffocating. She found herself drifting to the gardens. At least there, the roses bloomed without cruelty.
She walked among the hedges, trailing her fingers over petals, when a low sound caught her attention — the steady thud of a shovel against soil.
Colin.
He stood near the far edge of the lawn, stripped down to a plain undershirt damp with sweat, the muscles of his back flexing as he worked. Sunlight slid over his skin, turning every movement into something Elena couldn’t look away from.
She swallowed hard, guilt flooding her. But her eyes refused to obey the rules her mind screamed at her. She watched the way his shoulders moved, the line of his jaw as he turned briefly to wipe sweat from his brow.
As though sensing her gaze, he glanced up. Their eyes locked.
Elena’s breath caught.
He set the shovel aside and approached, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his pocket. His stride was unhurried, but his eyes never left hers.
“You shouldn’t be out here without a hat,” he said when he reached her. “The sun’s sharp today.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You sound like a doctor.”
“Maybe I would’ve been,” he replied, his tone laced with something unspoken, “if life had been different.”
The words struck her. She tilted her head, curiosity breaking through restraint. “What do you mean?”
He hesitated, then gave a half-smile. “Top of my class. Business degree. But opportunities aren’t equal, Elena. Some doors stay shut unless you’re born with the right name.”
Her heart twisted. She knew that truth all too well.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be.” His gaze softened. “It’s not pity I want from you.”
Something shifted in the air. The distance between them was suddenly unbearable. She could smell the salt of his sweat, the earth on his skin, raw and real in a way Alexander never was. Her fingers itched with the reckless urge to reach out — to trace the line of his collarbone, to feel the heat of him.
She took a step back instead, her voice unsteady. “I should go.”
“Elena.”
Her name on his lips froze her in place. She turned, slowly, her pulse thrumming.
He looked at her as though she were the only thing in the world worth seeing. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Her chest ached. God, she wanted to believe him. Wanted to let go of the mask she had worn for so long. But the weight of her vows, of her name, of her prison of a marriage pressed down.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
For a heartbeat, she thought he might close the gap, might take the choice from her trembling hands. And part of her wanted him to.
But he only nodded, his jaw tight, and stepped back. “I understand.”
She fled, her skirts brushing the roses as she walked away, her body burning with the memory of his nearness.
That night, when Alexander came home reeking of perfume and liquor, Elena turned her face to the wall. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
But in the darkness of her mind, it wasn’t her husband she saw.
It was Colin.
- Writer
