31. CHAPTER 28
Léonie
I watched our joined hands as he led me to the table, my fingers still tingling from the pressure of his. I wanted to tell myself it was just the window—simply biology and obligation from a signed contract, but I’d be a liar. The truth was, I wasn't numb. Not as I’d planned to be.
I’d spent so long trying to stay indifferent, yet here I was, leaning into the touch of a man who could ruin me with a single cold look by morning.
I craved the kind of love that was messy and loud and real.
This wasn't that—just Monsieur and Madame Kade slipping back into their roles.
Except when he whispered in my ear, I didn't feel like an actress. I felt stripped and seen, all at once.
Maybe that was the most dangerous part. I wasn't just giving him permission because I had to. I was giving it because I wanted to see what happened if I stopped fighting the current and just... let myself drown.
We arrived at the dinning room and he pulled out my chair with the practiced grace of a man who never fumbled anything.
I sat, smoothing my skirt over my thighs, trying to ignore the fire he’d left trailing through my body. He took his seat across from me, his gaze burning past my skin, infiltrating my bones.
Dinner should have been unbearable for all the usual reasons. Instead, it was unbearable for many new ones.
The room was quiet, yet it felt like so much was happening. Silverware on porcelain, the clink of glasses, Mrs Lewis moving in and out with a well-trained swiftness.
There was no small talk tonight. No commentary on my day, or his schedule, or mine, or the usual things we filled dinner time with.
Only awareness.
Every time I lifted my gaze, I found his.
It sat between us like a live current. The memory of the library lingered hot under my skin—the feel of his hands braced around me on the ladder, the way his mouth had taken mine like he’d been waiting months to do it, and how I’d wrapped my legs around his waist without thinking, holding on as if I was afraid he’d step away.
He wanted discipline, and logic. But as I looked at him across the candlelight, I realised we were both lying. There was nothing disciplined about the way he was looking at me, and there was nothing logical about why I was letting him.
Everyday I’d come to this table feeling detached. Tonight, I could barely taste the food.
“Is it that bad?” he asked suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward my plate. “You've stabbed that potato six times. It’s already dead.”
I glanced down. I’d carved one into perfect little squares without even noticing.
“I’m distracted,” I said, reaching for my water.
“About anything in particular?”
Heat crawled up my neck. His tone was mild but his eyes were not. They were dark with intent, fixed on my face like he was cataloguing every move.
I set my glass down carefully. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Work?”
“That too,” I said. “Among… other things.”
It was his turn to pause. His index finger tapped once on the stem of his wineglass. “We can revisit those other things after dinner,” he said really low. “Properly. Without interruptions.”
Just hearing him say it sent my pulse skittering.
I tried to focus on my food, to pretend I wasn't counting the seconds until Mrs Lewis cleared the plates and retreated, until the house settled into its night routine and we were just two people in a shared space with months of restraint hanging between us.
I’d spent weeks pretending I didn’t want to kiss him again, that my body hadn’t betrayed me every time he came too close or smiled too easily.
It felt pointless to pretend now.
“So,” he said, as if we were having an entirely normal marital conversation, “did you get anything done in that studio today, or were you just rearranging thread by colour again?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I finished three sketches and two pattern edits.”
“Mm.” He cut a bite of chicken, expression neutral. “So productive in the technical sense.”
“And what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means your idea of barely working would emotionally damage most of my staff,” he said dryly.
I laughed despite every intention not to. His gaze locked on mine, quick and intense.
I didn’t get a chance to say anything back.
There was a knock on the dining room doorframe. Mrs Lewis stepped in, hands folded.
“Sir,” she said, inclining her head, “Dr Gérard is in the east wing. He asked if he could have a word with you regarding your father.”
Orion went very still. Then I noticed the sudden clench of his jaw and the way his shoulders drew in before he forced them to relax. Months ago, I might have mistaken it for indifference. Now I was beginning to recognize the subtle lapses in composure he always tried to hide.
“Did he say if it was urgent?” Orion asked, his voice calmer than his face.
“No,” she replied. “But he did say it would be best to speak with you this evening.”
“Understood.” He set his fork down gently, and looked at me.
He gave me a strained smile that looked painful to form.
“If you’ll excuse me, Léa.”
“Of course.”
I thought he might say more. Ask me to wait up. Tell me not to worry, even though I hadn’t yet admitted that I was. He didn’t.
He just rose from the table, nodded to Mrs Lewis, and left the room with the same controlled stride he carried himself with when it came to business.
The air in the room felt off and heavy after he left. I couldn’t place why exactly.
I tried to finish my meal, but gave up halfway. The food might as well have been cardboard.
After dinner, I retreated to the studio.
Work usually helped. Especially when I felt tense.
Sketching always gave me a place to channel my nerves.
I put on music, spread fabric swatches over the table, lost myself in silhouettes, drapings and detail work.
I told myself I wasn’t listening for footsteps.
That I wasn’t straining to hear a door closing somewhere across the hall or listening out for voices—his voice in particular.
Hours passed. Evening gave way to night. The staff had shut down parts of the estate, the lights lowered. Evidence of the day winding down, but I stayed busy.
I told myself not to go looking for him, or waiting for him. I had deadlines to meet, and I felt inspired at this time to finish up some work. Staying up had a lot to do with me, than anyone else.
I lasted until just before midnight.
Stepping out of my studio, I noticed the corridor outside our rooms was dim, lit only by the sconces along the walls.
I hadn't heard him come in but I noticed his bedroom door was partly open, a thin line of shadow and light spilling out.
I meant to just walk past, just to get a glimpse of him… or maybe he would notice me. No.
If he needed me, he’d come find me anyway. That was the rule I’d set for myself. I wasn’t going to be the wife who hovered.
Then I heard it. A sound I’d never associated with him. Raw and stifled and so human it knocked the breath out of me.
Sobbing.
I froze, thinking I’d imagined it. The house creaked sometimes, the wind moved oddly slapping the tree against the wall. Noises that would startle anyone.
But then it came again and I listened closely. A low sound escaped him, pulled from somewhere deep and ugly, as though he was fighting it and losing.
I stepped closer, my heart beating so hard I thought it might give way any second.
Through the gap I could see part of the room. One wall, the edge of the bed, the dark line of his shoulders turned away. He stood facing the far corner, his hands braced against the wall above his head.
His back shook once. Twice.
A lump formed in my throat.
This was the same man the world called ruthless. My brothers hated him, my father feared him, and everyone else spoke his name with a mix of warning and awe. I'd watched him charm rooms full of dignitaries and negotiate everything as though he were a general rearranging markers for war.
And here he was, back bowed, alone in his room, breaking.
Instinct screamed at me to go in. To wrap my arms around his waist, press my cheek between his shoulder blades and tell him he wasn’t alone. To ask what happened. To offer… something. Anything.
But another part of me, the quieter and wary part, held me back.
What if he didn’t want me to see this? What if the comfort I offered felt like an intrusion? We were only just beginning to find some form of balance, to move from strangers with a marriage license to what might actually be a partnership.
I didn’t want to shatter that by barging into a private moment he hadn’t invited me into.
My fingers stayed on the doorframe, and I held on for a moment trying to figure out my next move.
One more harsh, muffled sound tore through the room. It went straight through me.
I couldn’t stand there any longer, as a shadow in the doorway. My presence was doing nothing here to help.
So I stepped back. Forced myself to walk away, down the corridor, into my own room. By the time I worked up the courage to go back and knock, his door was closed.
I stood outside it for a full minute, my palm hovered over the door knob.
“Orion,” I almost blurted.
The word stuck in my throat. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to ask even if I called out. I wondered what Dr Gérard might have said to him to make him this way. My heart skipped at the thought that something terrible must have happened.
I moved away from the door and went back to my room.
Sleep didn’t come easily. I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying that sound over and over, imagining every terrible possibility in the east wing. I couldn’t shake the image of him with his hands on the wall, using it to keep himself upright.
I must have drifted off sometime after 2AM, because when my alarm went off, it was already light outside.
I took a shower, dressed quickly and headed straight for the kitchen.
Mrs Lewis was there already making breakfast as usual. She was always the first person up in this wing. She knew Orion’s taste in food, better than the chef, and was the only one allowed to make him breakfast.