And soon, the hospital staff noticed.
One afternoon, as I was washing Maeve’s fruit in the kitchen, I overheard two nurses whispering.
“Oh my god. That’s his wife? Seriously?”
“Yeah. I heard they’ve been married for years. But he’s clearly in love with the other woman.”
The younger one glanced toward the ward door. “She’s... so calm. How does she do it?”
The older nurse sighed like she was watching a tragedy unfold. “You don’t understand. That’s real love.”
“What?”
“She’s taking care of the woman her husband is in love with. Not out of duty. Not out of pride. But because... she still hopes he’ll look at her. Even once. That’s the saddest kind of love. The kind that never speaks.”
Outside, I heard Benedict's footsteps slow by the nurses’ station. I didn’t turn around. But I felt his gaze on my back.
**
On the day Maeve was discharged, Benedict came home just long enough to throw his keys on the counter and look at me like I was something that reeked.
“I’m taking Maeve out of town for a while,” he said, flatly. “Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He never did.
I watched him guide her toward the waiting car, his hand lightly on her lower back, a coat draped over her shoulders then the door slammed. I stood still until the engine disappeared into the distance, taking their laughter with it.
The next day, I started packing. I folded everything in silence. My hands were steady. My chest, strangely calm.
Then a notification lit up my phone.
Maeve.
I froze.
And then the photos started.
Not one. Not two. Dozens.
They came in fast, one after another. A whole curated album. Each image framed for cruelty.
Her on Benedict’s lap at a vineyard in Tuscany, laughing while he kissed her neck.
Her wrapped in white silk sheets, back arched, one of his shirts draped across her bare thighs. Her, standing in front of a mirror with his arm wrapped around her waist, his phone in one hand, hers in the other as they captured the reflection together.
Her, holding his hand as he slipped a new bracelet onto her wrist, my bracelet. The one that gifted to me by Mrs. Karsov.
The final photo was a close-up of her lips on his chest, and beneath it, a caption in soft pink text:
“Look, Alodia. He may be your husband on paper… but never in bed. Pathetic little leech.”
My thumb hovered over the screen. But I didn’t delete it. I just let the images sit there and smiled bitterly.
**
But then came the Karsov patriarch’s birthday banquet. Benedict wasn’t back. He didn’t even bother to send a message. So, I showed up alone.
I wore a plain black dress… high collar, long sleeves. It covered my bruises with foundation and prayer. Pulled my hair tight into a low bun and walked in like I was supposed to be there.
The ballroom glowed with gold and crystal. Every guest glided like silk across the marble floors, dressed in custom gowns, heirloom jewelry, and the kind of arrogance only old blood could afford.
I stepped in. Heard the whispers before the doors even closed behind me. But it was she who saw me first, Grandmother Signe Karsov.
She sat at the head of the long table, spine straight despite her age, eyes sharp as a scalpel behind diamond-framed glasses.
As soon as her gaze landed on me, the smile on her face vanished.
“Where is Benedict?”
Her voice was calm. Cold. That tone that made grown men forget their power and shrink into silence.
I lowered my eyes. “He had urgent business overseas…”
She laughed once. “Urgent, was it?” She turned to reach for her wine, but just then, the butler burst into the room, face pale, hands shaking.
He didn’t speak. He simply handed her the tablet.
“Benedict Karsov and Maeve Peters spotted kissing in Tuscany.”
The headline was smeared with words like “romance,” “secret getaway,” “Karsov heir in love,” and “future bride?”
The photo was worse. He wasn’t just kissing her. He was worshipping her, his hand on her cheek, eyes closed, foreheads touching like a damn movie still.
Signe’s wine glass shattered against the marble.
“Alodia,” she said tightly. “Come. Now.”
She rose, turned, and walked toward the west corridor without another word. I followed. The entire table watched in silence.
She didn’t speak until we entered the ancestral room… heavy wood, dusty portraits, oil lamps that always smelled faintly of blood and rust.
She closed the door. Locked it.
Then turned and slapped me across the face, hard that my head whipped sideways from the force.
“Have you no shame?” she hissed. “Look at you. Humiliated. Mocked. You walk in here alone on my husband’s birthday like some discarded mistress, while your so-called husband is off licking champagne off another woman’s throat.”
I didn’t answer.
“Do you even know what this looks like?” she snarled. “The Linwood name was supposed to strengthen us. Instead, we’re a laughingstock. If your family had even a shred of pride, they’d drown you in a well.”
I swallowed the taste of blood. “I didn’t publish the article.”
“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence.” Her eyes narrowed. “Either call Benedict right now and tell him to get his ass back here, or take what’s coming.”
I knew the answer. He wouldn’t come for me. Not if I begged. Not even if I bled or died.
“I’ll take it.”
Her brows arched. “What did you say?”
“I’ll take the punishment.”
