Chapter 2
‘Ah, Dr Garnett’s back!’ Dahlia’s excited call snapped Ophelia from her reverie.
She looked up and found the once-empty courtyard now graced by a lone figure.
Dressed in a tailored overcoat, a cashmere scarf casually draped, and impeccably cut trousers—he cut a striking figure.
His jet-black hair was as smooth as silk, his features effortlessly handsome, and his calm gaze was unflinching as he carried a sleek suitcase.
His eyes swept over Ophelia, pausing on her hand resting protectively on her slightly rounded belly. Then he paused.
His expression was a mix of surprise and something complex she couldn’t quite decipher.
For a heartbeat, the fact that she was four months pregnant slipped from her mind.
Ophelia dashed towards the door, racing into the courtyard, only to freeze a step—like a mischievous child caught red-handed—biting her lip nervously, eyes cast downward in silent mortification.
It wasn’t until a cool, measured touch grazed her wrist that she dared to lift her gaze.
Meeting the striking eyes of the man before her, her voice faltered: ‘Gideon, I…I…’
What was there to explain? A bitter, rueful smile tugged at her lips as she thought: What could she possibly justify? The child inside her was the product of her own calculated defiance—a desperate act to keep him from slipping away.
They had been engaged for two years and married for three, yet Gideon had never even touched her.
The baby was conceived a few months back when she’d learned he was leaving for another lengthy business trip.
Unable to endure another stretch of his absence, she had resorted to administering a drug—a move that now bore its secret fruit.
Stubbornly, she stayed silent, biting her lip to keep her tumultuous thoughts in check.
Gideon exhaled slowly, then reached for Ophelia’s hand, his grip light but steady.
‘Come inside,’ he said, his voice low. ‘It’s freezing, and you’re—’ His gaze flickered to her stomach before he finished, ‘—pregnant. Cold air won’t do you any favours.’
Ophelia’s breath caught.
A rush of shaky hope tangled in her chest. ‘G-Gideon, you… you are not mad?’ she stammered.
He didn’t answer. Just guided her inside, his touch impersonal, like he was escorting a stranger.
As the heavy doors shut behind them, he said, ‘The forecast says heavy snow tomorrow. Make sure Dahlia seals your windows properly.’
That was it.
No warmth. No reassurance. Just a practical weather report.
The fragile hope in her chest withered.
Night had settled in, wrapping the Garnett estate in its usual quiet.
Ophelia lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Except tonight, for the first time in months, she wasn’t alone.
This was his bedroom.
They’d always had separate rooms. Gideon made that clear from the start.
Four months ago, the only reason she had spent a night in this bed was because she’d drugged him. A desperate, reckless move.
Now, he was back. And he hadn’t sent her away.
Did it mean something? Had the pregnancy softened him? Or was it just another meaningless act of tolerance?
She didn’t care about the reason. She cared that he was here.
The space beside her had been cold for too long. His presence, even if distant, filled that unbearable void.
She reached for his hand, hesitated, then gripped it tight.
She wanted to say something. Anything.
But when she turned to face him, she caught the quiet exhaustion in his eyes. The weariness pressed into his features, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix.
Her lips parted. Then she shut them.
Better silence than another unanswered question.
That night, the nightmares returned.
Ophelia was back at their wedding—the grand spectacle she had orchestrated with lies.
She had spun the perfect story, whispering in Gideon’s ear that Princess Sofia was still chasing him. That she didn’t believe his engagement was real. That she would never stop unless she was convinced that Gideon and Ophelia were madly in love, bound together in a way that no one—not even royalty—could tear apart.
She had forged evidence. Fed him enough half-truths to make him believe her.
And so, Gideon agreed.
The wedding was magnificent. A grand affair, a flawless deception.
The world watched as Ophelia walked down the aisle, marrying a man whose heart she had stolen not with love, but with manipulation.
That night, in their bridal suite, he stood by the window, looking out over the city as if the walls around him were a cage.
When he finally turned to face her, the golden light traced the sharp angles of his face—breathtaking, untouchable, completely out of reach.
‘I have no heart to give,’ he told her. ‘I won’t love you. I won’t love anyone.’
Ophelia had laughed, sharp and bitter. ‘You’re a doctor. You save lives. How can you be heartless?’
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t need to.
That night, the newlyweds slept apart.
Her pillow was soaked by morning.
And as she wiped her tears away, one stubborn, unshaken thought burned in her mind—
He doesn’t love me because I’m not enough.
She refused to believe he was incapable of love.
The first year, she didn’t believe it.
The second, she still held on.
If he remained distant, it had to be her fault, something she wasn’t doing right.
So she tried.
For him, Ophelia—who had never so much as boiled water—learned to cook. She burned her hands, got splattered with oil, ruined countless meals.
For him, she learned to clean, even though she had never touched a broom in her life.
She knew Gideon hated noise, so she bought a house far from the city’s chaos.
She dismissed most of the servants she had brought with her, keeping only Dahlia, her childhood maid.
The first year was miserable. But then—
One evening, Gideon built a swing in their back garden.
With his own hands.
Sure, Ophelia had asked for it. Begged, really. But the fact remained—he did it. For her.
And for a fleeting moment, she thought—maybe, just maybe, she was getting somewhere.
