Jerissa didn't put on the pajamas. Instead, wrapped only in a bath towel, she stepped out of the bathroom.
Franco's gaze flicked at her, his brows drawing together almost imperceptibly. But he said nothing.
Instead, he walked into the closet and returned with a silk nightdress he had hidden away.
"Change into this before you catch a cold."
A flicker of surprise stirred in Jerissa's eyes. She had expected him to be as forceful as before—pressing the clothes onto her, even dressing her himself with unyielding hands that allowed no refusal.
Before she could respond, a knock came from the door.
"Sir, the hangover soup is ready."
By the time she emerged again, Franco was sitting on the edge of the bed. In his hands was the steaming bowl of soup, his head bowed as he blew gently across the surface. The rising mist softened his features, giving him, for once, a faint tenderness.
He tested the temperature with the spoon, then looked up at her.
"Come. Drink this so you won't have a headache in the morning."
Her chest tightened.
How did he know she always got headaches after drinking?
Jerissa walked over and sat beside him. He lifted the spoon to her lips. She parted them slightly, letting the warm, faintly bitter liquid slide down her throat, carrying a faint medicinal fragrance.
When the bowl was empty, he picked up an almond pastry.
"Your favorite." Her body stiffened. Bitterness stung her tongue.
Every time she ate one of those, she had to secretly swallow allergy medicine afterward.
"That isn't me." She met his eyes, her voice steady. "I'm allergic to almonds."
Franco's gaze darkened. After a pause, he said quietly, "Alright. I won't have the chef make them again."
Jerissa studied the rigid line of his profile. Something strange rose inside her.
Was he... different, somehow?
That night, he did nothing more. He simply held her in his arms. His arm around her waist wasn't tight, yet it bound her with a weight that was impossible to shake off.
The next morning, Franco had breakfast prepared. Warm milk, golden toast edged with char, strawberry jam—all of it were still Nicole's favorites.
Jerissa picked up a slice of toast, only to notice a servant pressing a high-fashion gown under the iron.
"When you're done eating, change into that," Franco said flatly. "We're going out."
She remembered too well—there had been a photograph in his study, Nicole wearing that exact same dress.
What was different? What was she still hoping for?
Maybe last night's gentleness was nothing but an illusion born of too much wine.
She laughed at herself. "Where are we going?"
"The hospital. Juliette's surgery is today."
Her heart plummeted.
Of course. She should have known.
Juliette's features resembled Nicole's even more closely than hers did. She, too, was frail and ill, fragile to the point of breaking.
The only reason Franco had chosen Jerissa in the first place was because Juliette had been too sick—he feared she might leave him, just as Nicole had.
And once Juliette recovered, he would finally have a more "perfect" stand-in.
How laughable. Even as a substitute, she was only the second best.
She remembered not long ago, when Juliette deliberately coughed blood in front of him, and he had rushed overnight to gather an elite medical team to stay at the Cortex estate.
When Juliette murmured so much as murmured that her chest felt heavy, he had abandoned Jerissa in the pouring rain, driving forty minutes just to deliver medicine.
If it weren't a crime, Jerissa was certain he would tear someone's heart out just to keep Juliette alive.
Lowering her eyes, she drained her glass of milk in one swallow.
"Let's go."
Soon, she would no longer be Mrs. Alba.
Who he cared for, who he dressed up as a substitute—it would no longer have anything to do with her.
