The Wrong Sister

The Request

The shift happened so gradually that Arwen almost didn’t notice it at first.

It started the morning after Caelum had given her the art supplies, when she came down to breakfast and found him already there with a cup of tea waiting at her place setting.

“I had them make it the way you like it,” his tone was casual as if this was something he did every morning.

Arwen sat down and picked up the cup, taking a cautious sip before she could stop herself from showing surprise. It was perfect—honey instead of sugar and a hint of lemon. The way she made it in her room when no one was watching. Not the way Isolde took hers.

“How did you know I liked it this way?”

“You made yourself a cup in the kitchen three nights ago,” he said without looking up from his tablet. “I was working late and saw you.”

“You were watching me make tea?”

“I was watching you be yourself when you thought no one was looking.” He finally looked at her. “I’d rather you just told me how you like things instead of pretending.”

After that, the small attentions kept coming in ways that felt both deliberate and impossibly thoughtful.

At a charity luncheon two days later, Arwen found herself cornered by a particularly aggressive reporter who kept asking pointed questions about the rushed wedding and whether there were any “surprises” on the way, the implication clear and insulting. Before Arwen could respond, Caelum appeared at her elbow with two glasses of champagne.

“Darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said smoothly, handing her a glass and placing himself physically between her and the reporter. “You’ll have to excuse us, we’re needed for photographs.”

He guided her away with a hand on the small of her back, and it wasn’t until they were safely across the room that he spoke again.

“That reporter works for a tabloid that Viktor Ashbourne has connections to,” he said quietly. “She was trying to get you flustered enough to say something she could twist into a scandal.”

“Thank you for the rescue.”

“You don’t need to thank me for protecting my wife.” He looked at her. “Though I noticed you were about to handle her yourself. What were you going to say?”

“That our private life is none of her business and she should be ashamed of herself.”

“That would have been perfect.” Something like pride crossed his face. “Unlike your sister who would have frozen or said something that made it worse.”

Arwen couldn't say anything further, because the observation was too close to the truth.

The attentiveness continued over the following days. He waited for her in the mornings so they could go to breakfast together. He remembered she preferred the window seat in the car. When they attended a gallery opening, he noticed her spending time in front of a contemporary piece and quietly arranged for the museum to send her the catalog.

“You seemed interested in her work,” he said when she thanked him.

“I was... how did you even know which piece?”

“Because I was watching you instead of the art. Your whole face changed,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your whole face changed when you saw that painting, and you got this absorbed expression that you only have when you’re working on your own art. You never look like that at these public events.”

It was such a specific observation that Arwen didn’t know how to respond.

The strangest part was that none of it felt performative. When Caelum touched her elbow or remembered her tea or shielded her from reporters, it felt genuine. He was finally seeing the real her even though he still had doubts.

One week after he’d given her the art supplies, Arwen was reading in her room when she heard a soft knock on the connecting door. The sound actually startled her badly enough that she dropped her book, because in all the time they’d been married that door had never once been opened by either of them.

“Come in,” she called out automatically.

But Caelum didn’t come in.

Instead, his voice came through the door, rough and strained. “I’m not coming in... I just need to say something.”

Arwen moved closer to the door, her heart racing. “What is it?”

“The lock on this door.” He paused. “I find that I dislike it intensely.”

The words hung between them, separated only by wood and a lock she could open at any moment.

She felt a cold sweep across her, “Caelum...”

“I’m not asking you to open it,” he interrupted. “I’m not demanding anything. I just needed you to know that I hate this locked door between us. Hate that you feel like you need that barrier.”

Arwen pressed her palm against the door, it felt warm. “It’s not about feeling unsafe.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about not being ready for what happens when that door opens.” She closed her eyes. “You’ve been so kind this week, so attentive in ways I wasn’t expecting. I don’t know how to handle that.”

“Handle what?”

“Handle you actually seeing me instead of just going through the motions of having a wife.” Her voice came out small. “Handle the fact that you’re treating the real me with more care than you ever reserved for the idea of who you thought I was.”

Silence lingered from the other side.

“The real you is far more worth caring for than the idea I had,” Caelum said finally, quietly. “I married someone I thought I understood based on files and phone calls. But that person was just a performance. The woman on the other side of this door—the one who paints and makes terrible jokes and handles reporters without breaking—that’s who I want to know.”

she could feel the passion in his voice.

“But you don’t actually know me.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s exactly why I hate this lock.” She heard him shift. “I want to know you, I want to understand why you’re so different from what I expected.”

“Maybe there are good reasons for that.”

“I’m sure there are. And I’m trying to respect your boundaries while being honest that I want more than this.” His voice dropped. “I want to open this door and see you and talk to you without barriers. But I’m not going to push. The power is in your hands. It always will be.”

She heard him move away from the door.

“Good night, Arwen.”

He’d called her Arwen.

Not Isolde.

Her real name, spoken so casually and naturally, it completely stole her breath.

“Wait... what did you just call me?”

But there was no response from the other side, just silence that felt so loud.

Arwen stood frozen with her hand on the lock, her own name echoing in her ears, and the terrifying knowledge that Caelum might have known exactly who she was.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​