Chapter 4 Numb #2
But a few moments later, her footsteps returned — soft, hesitant, almost uncertain. When James looked up, she was standing in front of him again, holding something in her hands. It was an album. Thick, with a faded pink cover and a faint scent of dust and perfume lingering on it.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said gently, stepping forward. “When the maids were cleaning Madam’s bedroom, they found this album lying in a corner behind the couches. There are some photographs inside… it seems to be her personal item. I thought you might want to take a look.”
James frowned faintly but reached out to take it from her. The leather felt oddly warm in his hand, as though it had been held many times before. It felt heavier than it looked.
Without a word, he stood and walked away with the album, his footsteps echoing through the empty house.
He went straight to his study, setting the album on his desk before sinking into the chair.
He remained there for a long while, motionless, fingers resting lightly on the cover.
The silence of the house pressed down on him.
The same silence he had once liked but now found suffocating and unbearable.
After a moment, his hand slid over the cover, brushing off a thin layer of dust. His lips parted, his voice low and rough as he muttered, “What kind of photographs have you been taking in this house, Mia…”
Then, he flipped open the cover.
The first photograph stopped him cold.
It was old — from the day she had come to his house after their wedding.
The picture was slightly faded, the lighting uneven, but her smile was bright, pure, full of hope.
She had lifted her hand close to her face, taking a selfie with the other hand.
Beneath it, neatly written on the white border, was the date.
The day of their wedding. The day she had walked into his life as his wife.
James’s throat tightened. He didn’t know why, but that smile made his chest ache.
He turned to the next page.
The next photo was dated a month after their marriage. Mia was sitting on the edge of the bed, her posture small, her expression distant. Her eyes were turned toward the empty side of the bed — his side. The sheets beside her were untouched, perfectly neat.
A memory flickered painfully in his mind. He had left for work overseas right after their wedding, without even telling her when he would return.
She had been nineteen. He had been twenty-four. Their marriage had been arranged between two wealthy families—a business union, forged after her parents sent a proposal to his family.
He turned another page, and his breath caught.
The third photograph showed him sitting at his office desk, fully absorbed in his work. The angle made it clear it had been taken secretly. Below it, there was another date… and a small note written in her handwriting:
‘James told the receptionist that I’m not allowed to enter his office anymore. Maybe I did something to upset him. But… he still looks so nice when he sits there, working so seriously.’
James froze. His hand stilled on the page. His heart began to pound unevenly.
He remembered that day clearly. She had come to his office to deliver some files he’d forgotten at home. She’d walked into his office without knocking. Timidly, smiling softly, holding the documents close to her chest.
Instead of showing gratitude, he had scolded her in front of three people sitting in his office for not leaving the files at reception and for coming straight into his office. Then, in his anger, he’d even ordered the receptionist not to let her in his office ever again.
He hadn’t wanted her there because every time she appeared, something in him shifted. He didn’t like how unsettled she made him feel. So, he pushed her away.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, believing it was better this way. Cleaner, simpler. But now, seeing that single note, her face sprang to mind. He remembered it clearly—the quiet hurt in her eyes, the forced smile she wore as she turned and walked away.
His knuckles whitened.
He flipped to the next page.
This time, the photo showed a bedroom window with snow falling outside. The curtains were slightly drawn, the bed in the corner cold and empty. Beneath it, another note was written in her delicate handwriting:
‘My bedroom. Not ours.’
James’s chest tightened painfully. He clenched the edges of the album, his heartbeat thundering.
He had never shared a room with her. From the beginning, he had kept his distance. Even when she first stayed in his bedroom, he would sleep in another room. Eventually, she had quietly moved to the guest room without saying a word, and he had let her.
In five years of marriage, they had never once shared a bed.
Not even for a single night.
He could feel his pulse in his throat now, a dull pounding that wouldn’t stop. His breath grew shallow, the air in the room thick and suffocating.
Finally, he slammed the album shut. The sound echoed sharply across the room, breaking the silence like a whip.
Mrs. Maisel appeared at the doorway, startled by the sound. “Mr. Sinclair, are you all right?” she asked, worry clear in her tone.
James didn’t look up. His jaw flexed, his voice cold but uneven.
“She likes playing hard to get, doesn’t she?” His lips twisted faintly. “What is this supposed to be?”
Mrs. Maisel entered the study quietly, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. She stopped just in front of him, her hands folded in front of her apron. “Mr. Sinclair… I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
James finally lifted his gaze from the album. His eyes, dark and sharp, met hers.
She hesitated, then said, “Maybe… you should look at the back of the album.”
His jaw flexed. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, eyes locked on her as if trying to read her. Then, without a word, his hands returned to the album. He flipped to the last page.