21. CHAPTER 19 #2
She was in her twenties, with warm brown skin, big dark eyes, and curls pinned back under a neat headband. Her accent had the rhythm of someone who grew up between languages. Mrs Lewis had introduced her as my primary attendant.
“Yes,” I said. “I… do.”
That felt like the understatement of the year.
“He said you prefer this brand.” She tapped the box with the sketchpad. “The way he described it, I thought he used it himself.”
I knew he didn’t. I hadn’t seen anything remotely artistic on his desk when I peeped through his side of the wing.
I touched the box, running my fingers on the logo. The reality of it slowly dawning on me.
He had arranged the wardrobe, the library, the tools I liked to use for work, without asking a single question.
Who did he speak to? Blaise?
I should have resented it. Maybe I did, a little. The effort implied a level of watching that I didn’t want to think about.
It still felt kind… in a calculated way.
“I’ll show you the best sofas,” Isabella said, smiling. “I read too. On my breaks when Madame Lewis is busy at the east wing.”
We became allies fast. She was the one who brought me tea in the afternoons, listened to Céleste and me argue over fabric swatches at the library desk, and rolled her eyes when my mother’s florist sent yet another bouquet to brighten the estate.
She reminded me so much of Annette.
Céleste visited twice a week with mood boards and half-finished dresses. We spread our work over the long table, transforming the desk space in the library into a mini fashion room. She pretended we were at her fashion studio exchanging ideas after her staff had left for the day.
We laughed the same, as though no one was around. Our voices were louder here. Every laugh sounded like it might reach the ceiling and report back.
I expected Esmé Kade to walk in and scold us like a bunch of teenagers, but it never happened. It was thrilling to be a mess, just for once in my private living space.
Isolde had been away on tour with her ballet company, performing across several European cities.
Her messages came constantly as though she refused to miss a second of whatever Céleste and I were doing without her—backstage selfies, tired smiles after performances, hotel window views, ballet outfit checks (whether or not we wanted to indulge her with twenty pictures of which one fits better). Very Isolde.
We arranged a lunch for her return, and I’d been counting down the days.
Till the actual day. Today.
The thought followed me all the way into the dining room.
Earlier this morning, breakfast had been the same as always. Coffee, eggs, fresh fruit. The linen napkins were folded, the cutlery aligned, and the table set with the same meticulous care that defined the Kade household.
Only Mrs Lewis ever broke the script. She rotated my dessert every morning. Today it was a small berry tart with a perfectly glossy top—because she knew how much I loved my desserts, and she indulged me. Those few bites were usually the best part of my morning.
As I savoured my dessert, trying to keep my nerves in check, my mind was already in the city with Céleste and Isolde.
Isabella refilled my cup with mint tea and asked about my outfit for lunch. I told her I’d pick something that wouldn’t give Lady Kade a stroke. She laughed, then left me alone with my thoughts.
But I never made it out of the estate. Rather I spent the day in, going through routine. Sketching, reading….till dinner time.
Orion was already seated when I entered the room, his sleeves rolled, looking like he owned the entire universe and the beings that existed in it.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice deep, velvety smooth.
“Good evening,” I replied, taking my seat.
His eyes tracked my movements as usual before he picked up his glass.
When I glanced at him again, I noticed something in his expression I hadn’t seen since our wedding day. The faintest subtle crease between his brows. Clearly not from irritation.
It was curiosity, combined with that infuriating amusement.
My stomach twist in knots. I ignored it, folded my napkin, set it on my lap, and braced myself.
Today, I’d planned to leave the house to see my friends, but I couldn’t. I was upset about it, though I refused to let it show.
Was that what his sudden amusement was about?
Maybe it was time to say something, to test the boundaries of this marriage.
To see how much I could get away with.
ORION
I looked up immediately she entered.
It was the same every time I felt her enter a room. She moved gently through every space, almost cautiously, as if trying not to disturb the air around her.
Yet the room always changed when she walked in. It recalibrated around her, and my attention followed before I even realised I’d turned in her direction.
Tonight was no exception.
She sat opposite me, her shoulders relaxed in that way she did when she tried to appear calm.
The chandelier lit a warm gloss over her skin, picking out the line of her collarbone above the low neckline of her dress.
A simple black slip, thin straps, bare arms. She had an artist’s instinct for understatement.
I cut into my food slowly, doing my best to ignore the way she held my attention without even trying.
She watched her plate more than she watched me, her faux calm betrayed by the tension in her posture.
Her fork moved, but her mind stayed elsewhere. Ever so often, she glanced toward the windows, then back to her plate. The pattern became obvious.
She wanted something. She would rather chew her own arm off than ask.
I kept my face angled toward my plate, feigning indifference, letting amusement thread through me. She was terrible at hiding things.
“Are you going to ask,” I said finally, lifting my gaze to her, “or am I supposed to guess?”
Her eyes darted up—startled first, then guarded. She swallowed.
“I heard,” I continued, picking up my glass, “you wanted to leave the house today. Why didn’t you?”
I asked casually, as if it were a passing observation and not something I’d known the instant it happened.
Her gaze snapped to mine.
“I couldn’t,” she replied evenly. “Your guard dogs wouldn’t let me.”
Guard dogs.
I bit back a smile.
“My security team,” I replied, placing the knife down, “asked you which car you preferred so they could prepare it. Or drive you.”
Her full lips pressed together. “I told them I didn’t want a car. I wanted to take the bus or the train. Like I usually do.”
I set my fork down as well.
“You’re a Kade,” I said. “You won't be taking any public transportation.”
Her eyes widened. “That sounds like a command.”
“It is.”
She stiffened.
I’d never understood it. A Fernández heiress moving through France without protection, slipping onto trains like she was invisible.
When I’d first noticed it—months ago—I’d corrected it in secret.
Added security details. Built contingencies around her habits.
Watched her move with unaware defiance through spaces she should never have been unguarded in.
Her parents had fleets of cars. Drivers. Protocols. And yet—
“I’m used to getting around on my own. I walked, I took trains, I took buses. I didn’t need an entourage and a security briefing every time I stepped outside. I don’t need your policing,” she responded, her nose flaring.
She had a talent for choosing interesting words. Guard dogs. Policing.
I leaned back on the dining chair, studying her.
When had wanting my wife alive and safe become an act of control in her mind?
“If you call care policing,” I said, “then consider yourself under surveillance, yes.”
Her mouth parted, incredulous.
I continued before she could spit fire at me.
“Your father owns more luxury vehicles than most governments,” I said. “Are you telling me you never drove any of them?”
She hesitated.
That was new. She never hesitates when she lets that sharp tongue of hers loose.
“I wasn’t allowed,” she replied, almost reluctantly. “I could only use a car if a driver took me, and I argued every time against it.”
I knew about the arguments. The part about never being allowed behind the wheel irritated me in a way I didn’t like to admit.
“What reason did they give?” I asked.
“That I didn’t need to.” She shrugged one shoulder. “And that they had better uses for the drivers and the cars than indulging me.”
Ridiculous. I clenched my teeth to rein in my surging irritation.
“I wanted to come and go as I pleased,” she went on. “And you promised I would. Well,” she amended, focusing her gaze, “you noted my terms.”
“A promise is a promise,” I said. “You can come and go as you please. You’ll still need to drive or be driven. All you have to do is select a vehicle. It will be yours.”
I took a sip of wine and added, “You can take any of my cars. What I own belongs to you as well. If none of them appeal to you, send a list of your preferences to the office. The accountant will arrange for a fleet that fits your taste.”
She looked at me as if I had offered her a gilded muzzle.
“I don’t want a car.”
I tilted my head. “So what do you want?”
The answer was immediate.
“Freedom.”
The word hovered between us.
She already moved through this house as freely as anyone under this roof. She went where she wished. She ignored the areas my mother claimed as untouchable and walked into them anyway.
For the past two weeks I'd watched her explore my side of the estate. She had been to the pool house—same one I hadn’t entered in over a year.
She had examined the pantry even after Mrs. Lewis told her my mother preferred staff-only access.
That particular act of defiance entertained me enough to request the security footage twice.
She had made herself a snack in the kitchen one afternoon. My mother had never picked up a knife in that space a single day in her life. The staff adored Léonie for that alone.
Léonie had given Mrs. Lewis a list last week to purchase ingredients for pastries. Dark chocolate, butter, vanilla pods, cinnamon, fresh cream. It was a very long list, according to Mrs Lewis.