(Evelyn Hart's POV)
The Cross estate was made of marble, silence, and things not said.
Each room whispered of money — velvet drapes, custom furniture, scented wood floors — but nothing whispered of home. I wandered through hallways too wide, rooms too polished, chandeliers too heavy.
Everything was in its place, just not me.
---
The first morning came with sunlight and silence.
I dressed in a pale cream blouse and ankle-length skirt — modest, appropriate. When I walked down to the dining room, one of the maids glanced up, startled, as if I wasn't supposed to exist.
Zyden sat at the head of the table.
Black shirt. Gold cufflinks. Not a single wrinkle out of place. He scrolled through his phone, sipping dark coffee with an elegance born of habit.
He didn't look up when I walked in.
The maid placed a small plate in front of me — fruit slices and toast, untouched tea. She didn't ask if I wanted anything else. I didn't have the strength to speak.
Ten minutes passed.
He didn't say a word.
Finally, I forced one.
"Good morning."
Nothing.
He flipped to another screen.
I watched him, tried to find the boy I once liked in high school — the one who made my heart twist for no reason. He wasn't here. Maybe he never was.
He stood without touching the croissant on his plate.
"I'll be working late," he said flatly, still not meeting my eyes.
Then he walked away.
---
The staff here — they didn't smile.
Polite nods. Quick glances. A shared, subtle doubt in their eyes every time they looked at me.
They knew.
They all knew this wasn't how it was supposed to be.
They'd prepared the house for someone else.
Someone brighter. Louder. Beloved.
Instead, they got me.
---
The next day was the same.
And the next.
Three mornings. Three breakfasts in silence. Three days without a single full sentence from my husband.
I tried asking questions.
"How do you like your tea?"
"Should I attend the business dinner with you this Friday?"
"Would you rather I stay in the guest wing?"
He gave the same answer every time:
A look.
A shrug.
Silence.
Or worse — "Do what you want. None of this was mine to choose anyway."
---
The nights were worse.
I had my own room. Soft bed. Fresh sheets. A vanity too large for one person.
I lay there every night, wide awake, hearing the faint echo of Zyden's footsteps in the hallway, his door clicking shut at the far end of the corridor. Never mine.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't even hate me loudly.
Just... tolerated me.
Like I was some diplomatic problem everyone wanted to forget about but couldn't erase completely.
---
On the fourth day, I explored the garden.
There was a stone bench beneath a cypress tree — beautiful and lonely, like something from a forgotten painting. I sat there for hours, staring at the dried fountain.
I used to be able to cry.
I remember doing it as a child — loud, honest sobs that echoed through the halls of our old house. But now? My throat burned, but the tears stayed trapped behind my lashes, stubborn as truth.
Selena hadn't called.
No one had.
Not even Caelan.
It was like I'd been erased from the old world but never written into this one.
---
That night, I couldn't take the silence anymore.
I stood outside Zyden's study, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
The light was on. The shadows moved inside. I could hear soft jazz playing from the speakers, faint and expensive.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again — a little louder.
Finally, his voice: "Come in."
I stepped in slowly.
He sat behind his desk again, tie loosened, top button undone. He didn't look up.
"What is it now?" he muttered.
"I just…" I swallowed. "I wanted to ask if I did something to offend you."
He looked up at that.
Finally.
His eyes were tired, unreadable. "This again?"
"You haven't spoken to me since the wedding."
"I didn't ask for this marriage."
"I didn't either," I whispered. "You know that."
He stood abruptly. "Do I? Because all I know is: the girl I was supposed to marry didn't walk down the aisle. You did. And now I have to pretend this arrangement is real — for the sake of press, shareholders, and my mother."
I flinched. "So you'd rather I vanish?"
He stepped closer. "I'd rather you not look at me like this is some love story. It isn't."
"I never wanted a love story," I whispered. "I just wanted not to be hated."
He was silent.
The silence grew.
And then he said, almost too softly, "Then maybe you shouldn't have worn someone else's dress."
---
I walked out before he could see me fall apart.
Straight to the bathroom. Locked the door. Turned on the shower.
The sound of water masked the sound of me breaking.
I sat down on the cold tiles, knees to my chest, and for the first time since the wedding...
I cried.
Silently.
Hopelessly.
The way people cry when no one is coming.
---
I wasn't a bride.
I was a body in a dress.
A placeholder for peace.
A girl who now lived in a mansion full of chandeliers, but had no warmth in her name.
Even the mirrors in this house didn't reflect me properly anymore.
They just showed the ghost of someone who said "I do" to a life that was never meant for her.
---