The Heir’s Remorse: My Love, Come Back To Me

Liora leans out the window. A month now. That car hasn't come once，not even once. Liora's fingers rest on the windowsill, the tips an unnatural shade of white, bloodless. The autumn wind cuts inside, sharp and cold, carrying the smell of dead leaves and something else—something that tastes like swallowed curses. Her body is freezing, but she won't pull back. Why should I? she thinks. This is my house too,at least on paper. The roses on the sill have died. The petals curled into themselves, brown and withered, like little fists clenched against nothing. Like paper that has been burned and scattered,something already over. Liora bought them last week. Came back from the farmer's market, saw the flower shop had a sale, and picked out the freshest bunch they had. When she slid the roses into the glass vase, there were still water droplets clinging to the petals, crystal-bright, like morning dew caught in the act of falling. Liora remembers thinking,if Dorian comes home, walks through that door and sees something alive in this living room, some color in breath of life, maybe his mood will lift. Maybe his brow will unknot, just a fraction. But she waited seven full days. Watched the petals drop one by one onto the sill like tiny casualties,the stems blacken from the root up, a thick, sweet stench of decay hanging in the corner of the room,Dorian never came. "Mr. Veyne won't be coming home tonight either, I expect." The housekeeper stands in the doorway, and there is no hiding the ache in her voice. That particular brand of pity you can't disguise no matter how hard you try. "A whole month and not one visit. What kind of marriage is this supposed to be?" Liora pulls her gaze back from the window. The frame has left two deep red lines pressed into her palms. She looks down at them—her own body keeping score,she straightens her back. "A marriage of convenience," she says, and her voice comes out flatter than she intended. The housekeeper blinks. Liora has never said anything like this before. There's a pause, heavy, and then Liora waves a hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap,you're right, of course. This isn't a marriage,it is a waiting room." Liora turns. Her mouth stretches into a smile, but this time it's a sharp thing, a blade turned inward. She doesn't practice this one. It just happens. "He's busy," she says,the old refrain. Then she adds, "And I'm tired. So tired of being the only one who notices." Busy. Three years now. this is the word she's spoken more than any other. But tonight, it tastes different. like a lie she's finally stopped believing. Dorian is busy with meetings,negotiations. Busy taking Stella shopping, taking her to dinner, taking her to every single high-society gala that matters. He is always, perpetually, exhaustingly busy. And his busyness never contains her. "Ma'am—" The housekeeper's mouth opens, then closes. Whatever she wanted to say, she swallows it. In the end, she just sighs and backs out of the room, pulling the door shut with a soft click. Liora walks to the table and sits down. Her eyes drift to that massive walk-in closet in the corner of the living room,the one with the door that's always closed. Three years of marriage,she's barely opened that door. Truth is, she's scared to,not of the clothes, but of what they represent: a role she never truly inhabited. Every month, Dorian's assistant arranges for the latest season's collection to be delivered. The clothes get hung up, tags snipped off, arranged in perfect rows like artifacts in a museum. For display only. Never for wearing. Liora could wear sackcloth or silk, diamonds or nothing at all—Dorian wouldn't notice,he's never looked. Those clothes aren't for her,just for the position— "Wife of Dorian Veyne." A wife can't look too shabby. That's it. That's all. Liora's phone screen lights up,a message from Winnie. "You going to the charity gala tonight? I heard Dorian will be there." Liora's thumb hovers over the screen. She stares at those words for a very long time. Then she types, "Of course,I still in there." But now,Liora already started to get tired of maintaining the pretense of being Dorian’s wife.One day hope send the real version, she thinks. The secretary had notified her yesterday. Actually,Dorian's mother Zariy had required it.A daughter-in-law of the Veyne family must be seen at these functions,make an appearance. Otherwise the social circles will start talking, and talk is the most dangerous weapon of all. Sharper than truth. Faster than fact. Liora sets the phone down and rises from the chair,she walks toward the closet,the door feels heavier than it should. She pushes it open. Cold white light snaps on overhead,rows and rows of couture gowns hang there, motionless, like exhibits in a museum of things that were never really hers. Her fingers trail across them,silk here, satin there, a whisper of tulle,and every single fabric feels the same against her skin. She picks a black dress,long,simple,every time she chose this type as dress,but now…her hand stops on a red one. Deep crimson, a dress that would announce her. The fabric catches the light like a wound. She changes. Stands before the full-length mirror. The woman staring back is too thin. You can see it in the way her collarbones jut out, sharp enough to cut,the red dress makes her skin look even paler than it already is,like someone who hasn't felt sunlight in a very long time. Liora tries on a smile,the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You are his wife," Liora whispers to the reflection,her voice is so low it's barely a murmur."Liora, you are Dorian's wife,he's just forgotten. When he remembers,everything will be different." She stops. Something out her bristles. Five o'clock in the afternoon,Liora gets into the car. The driver glances at her through the rearview mirror, hesitating. "Madam, today…" "What is it?" "Mr. Veyne's assistant just called." The driver's voice drops lower and lower, like he's delivering news of a death. "He said… Mr. Veyne will be bringing Miss Stella with him tonight. He said you should… make your own arrangements." Liora's fingers tighten around the fabric of her skirt,the silk crumples in her fist like a crushed flower. "Did he now," she says, her voice deceptively calm. "Well.James,do you think 'make your own arrangements' means I should find my own ride, or that I should arrange my own feelings?" She meets the driver's eyes in the mirror,he looks terrified. "I…I think—" "Never mind.I'll make my arrangements, as instructed." Liora pulls out her phone，for a wild second she considers texting Dorian directly: "I'll be wearing the red dress. Try not to choke." Instead, she types nothing. The fire is there, but the water is still deeper. Outside the window, the city rushes backward，lass towers catch the setting sun, orange gold light spilling across the whole sky. It's the kind of twilight that should make you believe in something，but Liora just sits there, and her chest feels tight, and there's a weight pressing down on her that she can't name. Dorian Veyne.