3. Elizabeth
— ? —
Elizabeth
I wake before dawn, determined.
If Jarec Fairweather wants to pretend I don’t exist, fine. But I refuse to make it easy for him. I refuse to skulk around this house like a ghost, eating alone, sleeping alone, existing in the margins of his life like a footnote he’d rather forget.
I dress quickly, choosing a soft gray dress that makes my eyes look brighter, and make my way to the dining room while the sky is still pink at the edges.
The table is set for one.
“Mr. Fairweather has already taken his breakfast in the study this morning, ma’am.” The maid - Sarah, I’ve learned her name is Sarah - gives me that same apologetic look I’m starting to know too well. “He had an early call.”
The disappointment tastes like cold coffee. Bitter and familiar.
“Of course.” I sit down in front of my solitary place setting, arranging my napkin in my lap with more care than necessary. “Thank you, Sarah.”
She hovers for a moment. “Would you like me to let him know you were looking for him?”
“No.” The word comes out too sharp. I soften it with a smile I don’t feel. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m sure he’s very busy.”
I eat alone again. The eggs are perfect, the toast is perfect, the orange juice is freshly squeezed, and all of it turns to ash in my mouth.
This is ridiculous.
I’m not some lovesick girl pining for attention from a man who doesn’t want her.
I’m a grown woman trapped in an impossible situation, trying to find some scrap of normalcy in a life that has been upended entirely.
Is it so much to ask for a single meal together?
A conversation that lasts more than thirty seconds?
Some acknowledgment that I exist beyond the contract we both signed?
Apparently, yes. It is too much to ask.
After breakfast, I decide to explore the parts of the house I haven’t seen yet. The east wing, Sarah mentioned, is mostly unused. Guest rooms and storage, relics of a time when the Fairweathers entertained on a grander scale.
I find myself drawn to the narrow corridors, the lower ceilings, the wallpaper faded to a soft rose that suggests this part of the house doesn’t see many guests. It feels older here, more intimate. Less like a museum and more like someone’s home.
I turn a corner and nearly collide with him.
Jarec is coming from the opposite direction, still in his shirtsleeves, a file folder in one hand. We both stop short, but the hallway is too narrow for two people to pass comfortably.
I try to squeeze past. He doesn’t move in time.
Full front-to-front contact.
My breasts press against the hard plane of his chest. My hip brushes his thigh. I feel how warm he is through the thin fabric of my dress, feel the sudden sharp intake of his breath, feel the way his whole body goes rigid.
We freeze.
His free hand shoots up to grip the doorframe above my head. That gesture again, the instinctive cage. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, and this close I can see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
Neither of us moves.
The hallway is silent except for the sound of our breathing, slightly too fast, slightly too shallow. I should step back. Should apologize, make some excuse, put distance between us. But my feet won’t cooperate, and his eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
“Careful,” he mutters.
Then he’s moving past me, long strides carrying him away down the corridor, and I’m left standing alone with my heart pounding and my skin tingling everywhere we touched.
I press my palm flat against the faded wallpaper and try to remember how to breathe.
***
That afternoon, I’m summoned to the foyer.
Summoned. Like a servant. Like a dog being called to heel.
I consider ignoring it - consider staying in my room with my paints and my pride - but curiosity wins out over stubbornness. It always does.
Jarec is waiting by the front door, dressed in a casual jacket I haven’t seen before, his expression carefully neutral. He looks different out of his suits, younger somehow, though no less guarded.
“We need to be seen together,” he says without preamble. “The families expect it. The press will talk if we don’t make some appearance.”
“The press.” I cross my arms. “I didn’t realize our marriage was newsworthy.”
“Everything I do is newsworthy.” There’s no arrogance in it, just resignation. “And a Fairweather marrying someone outside the usual circles is more newsworthy than most. If we don’t control the narrative, someone else will.”
“What narrative would you like to present? Devoted newlyweds? Partners in a business arrangement? Strangers who happen to share a mailing address?”
His jaw tightens. “A walk on the beach. That’s all I’m asking. An hour of your time so the photographers who inevitably lurk at the edge of the property can get their shots and leave us alone.”
“How romantic.”
“Romance wasn’t part of the agreement.”
The words land like a slap, even though they shouldn’t. Even though I know they’re true.
“Fine.” I turn toward the stairs. “Give me ten minutes to change.”
“You look fine as you are.”
I pause, glancing back at him. He’s not looking at me - he’s studying something on his phone, deliberately casual - but there’s a faint flush at the tips of his ears that wasn’t there before.
“Fine,” I repeat, and grab my coat from the closet.
***
The Rhode Island coastline is brutal and beautiful.
Wind whips off the Atlantic, carrying salt and the promise of storms. The sky is the color of pewter, heavy with clouds that haven’t decided yet whether to rain. The private beach stretches out before us, rocky and wild, nothing like the manicured shores I’ve seen in photographs of other estates.
I like it better this way. Untamed. Honest.
Jarec walks beside me in silence, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The photographers are somewhere behind us - I caught a glimpse of telephoto lenses glinting from the cliff path - but he seems determined to ignore them.
The sand is cold beneath my feet, the wind cutting through my coat. I should have worn something warmer. Should have brought a scarf, gloves, something to protect against the bite of the sea air.
I stumble on a rock, ankle turning awkwardly, and his hand shoots out to catch my elbow before I can fall.
His grip is firm and steadying, fingers warm even through my sleeve. For a moment we stand there, the waves crashing behind us, the wind whipping my hair across my face, his hand anchoring me to something solid.
Then he drops my arm like it burned him.
“I won’t always be here to catch you,” he says, voice clipped.
I look out at the churning sea, at the gray-green waves that rise and fall with ancient indifference. The water doesn’t care about arranged marriages or old debts or two people who can’t figure out how to exist in the same space.
“I never asked you to,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond. We walk the rest of the beach in silence, maintaining a careful distance between us, never quite touching again.
But I feel his eyes on me more than once. Quick glances when he thinks I’m not looking. A furrow between his brows that might be concern or might be something else entirely.
When we reach the far end of the beach, where the rocks rise up to meet the cliffs, he stops.
“There’s a path here,” he says, gesturing toward a narrow trail cut into the stone. “It leads back to the house. The footing is uneven.”
A warning. Or maybe an offer.
I study the path. It’s steep, treacherous, the kind of climb that would be difficult even in proper shoes. I’m wearing flats that have already proven inadequate for beach terrain.
“I can manage.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“Then why mention it?”
He’s quiet for a moment. The wind tears at his hair, sending dark strands across his forehead. He looks younger like this, less polished. Almost approachable.
“Because the last time you fell,” he says finally, “I caught you. And you looked at me like I’d committed some kind of offense.”
“You startled me.”
“I helped you.”
“You grabbed me without warning and then dropped me like I was contaminated.”
His expression flickers. “That’s not-”
“Isn’t it?” I turn to face him fully, the wind at my back, the sea roaring behind us.
“You touch me only when you have to. You speak to me only when there’s no alternative.
You take your meals in your study and leave before I wake and treat me like a houseguest you’re obligated to tolerate rather than a wife you chose to marry. ”
“I didn’t choose-”
“Neither did I.” My voice cracks on the words, and I hate myself for it. “Neither did I, Jarec. But I’m here anyway. I’m trying to make the best of an impossible situation, and you won’t even meet me halfway. You won’t even eat breakfast at the same table.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with the crash of waves and the cry of seabirds.
“You’re right,” he says finally. His voice is quieter now, the sharp edges worn down. “I’ve been… absent. More than I should be.”
“Is it because of who I am? Because I’m not-” I stop, unable to finish the sentence. Not rich enough. Not elegant enough. Not the woman you would have chosen if the choice had been yours.
“No.” The word is immediate, almost fierce. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Then what?”
He looks away, toward the horizon, toward something I can’t see. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I’ve spent years building walls, and now someone expects me to just… let them down. Because a contract says I should.”
“I’m not asking you to let anything down. I’m asking for basic human decency. Meals together. Conversations. Some acknowledgment that we’re in this together, whatever this is.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Breakfast. I’ll be there.”
It’s not much. It’s barely anything at all. But something in my chest loosens slightly, and when we climb the path back to the house - his hand hovering near my elbow, close enough to catch me if I fall - I don’t pull away.