Inside, my heart screamed. I already knew the truth—his regret wasn’t meant for me. Helena’s name weighed heavier on his conscience than mine ever had. Still, I nodded obediently, pretending I was the same woman he thought he controlled. Because pretending hurt less than breaking apart in front of him.
He fed me warm soup, one careful spoonful at a time, his gaze heavy with practiced remorse.
Once, I would’ve believed him.
Now, I knew every apology was just a performance meant to keep me quiet.
Then the door flew open.
“Sir Dominic!” the butler cried. “Something’s wrong with Miss Helena again. She’s vomiting badly. The doctor says you need to come at once!”
The instant Helena’s name was spoken, Dominic stood up abruptly. In his haste, the bowl tipped from his hand. Scalding soup spilled across my arm.
I screamed as pain ripped through my skin.
He didn’t even turn around.
Didn’t hesitate.
And just like that—he was gone.
I cradled my burned arm, shaking with both agony and fury. Through blurred vision, I treated the wound myself, pressing cold compresses against my skin while silent tears streamed down my face.
That was it.
I was done.