CHAPTER 136: INDIFFERENCE DRESSED AS DISCIPLINE

Aiden POV

The morning she could finally walk on her own, I knew it was time.

I watched her shuffle from the bedroom into the kitchen in one of the oversized sweaters William must’ve given her—because it sure as hell wasn’t mine. Her hair, though no longer matted with sweat, was still a tangled mess. Her skin, once ghostly and pale, was finally starting to take on a flush again. That goddamn flush. That reminder she was alive. That reminder I’d spent weeks nursing her, praying for her to pull through even when I wanted to strangle her for everything she had done.

Now she stood in front of me. Real. Breathing. And irritatingly, devastatingly... still beautiful.

"I’m feeling better," she mumbled.

I didn’t respond right away. I stared into my coffee mug instead, not even drinking it—just pretending it mattered more than her existence.

"Good," I finally said flatly. "You’re going to need your strength."

She blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

I leaned back in my chair and looked at her—really looked. Not the way I used to, not with the hunger I had once felt. No, now I looked like a man inspecting damage after a storm, trying to figure out what could be salvaged—if anything.

"You’re still my wife," I said.

A flicker of something crossed her face. Hope? Hurt? I didn’t care. I steamrolled over it.

"But that doesn’t mean you get to live here like some pampered queen, not anymore. I’m laying off most of the staff. William will stay. You will assist with the rest. Cleaning. Cooking. Laundry. Dishes. If you’re going to stay here, you’ll earn your keep."

Her jaw dropped. "You—you’re joking, right?"

I stood from the table. "Do I look like I’m joking?"

She looked like I’d slapped her. Good. Maybe I had, in a way. She needed a dose of reality. This wasn’t the jet, or the spa resort she thought she was walking into when she married me. This wasn’t some delusional revenge fantasy where she played the long-suffering victim and I swooped in to love her anyway.

No. This was war. And she’d already lost the upper hand.

"But I’m still recovering," she said, her voice small.

"Then move slowly," I replied coldly. "But move."

I walked past her, brushing her shoulder slightly, and she flinched. Not from pain—no, from the iciness in my tone. From the void where warmth had once lived.

She called after me, "Aiden, why are you doing this?"

I paused at the doorframe and looked over my shoulder. "Because I made a mistake. I cared. I’m correcting it now."

Then I walked away.

The Days That Followed

She tried to keep up.

God, she tried. I’ll give her that. But every time I saw her bent over a mop, or reaching up to dust something, I felt nothing but twisted satisfaction laced with guilt I didn’t want to examine too closely.

Some days I caught her stealing glances at me, probably hoping I’d say something kind. Ask her how she was feeling. Maybe joke about her being a terrible cleaner and offer to help.

But I never did.

I’d walk into the kitchen and pretend not to see her wiping down counters. I’d eat the meals she cooked without comment, even when they were burnt or under-seasoned. I let her scrub the bathroom floors on hands and knees, wincing when she moved wrong because her leg still hadn’t fully healed from the bite. I said nothing.

She was doing her penance. And I was letting her.

Every time I opened my mouth, it was to give instructions, corrections, or silence. Not once did I thank her. Not once did I acknowledge the effort she was making.

And yet...

There were moments. Fleeting, infuriating moments. Like when I passed her door late at night and heard her crying into her pillow. Or when I saw the way her hands shook when trying to fold the laundry. I’d feel something pull in my chest. And I hated it.

Because those moments made it harder to keep the mask on.

I had to remind myself: she hurt me first. She lied. She used me. She came into my life for revenge, for some stupid past life justice I never asked to be a part of.

So I hardened again.

William Noticed

"Sir," William said one afternoon, his voice too gentle for my liking, "perhaps you’re being a bit... harsh."

I glared at him. "She’s not your concern."

"She is still your wife."

"Not for long."

He sighed but said nothing more. Smart man.

She had cleaned the entire west wing of the villa alone.

I found her curled up in the library chair afterward, asleep, arms hugging her knees like a child. There was a faint smudge of ash on her cheek from the fireplace. I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there, staring at her.

Remembering what it felt like to touch her. To love her. To lose myself in her.

And then I remembered her voice. Cold and cruel.

I walked away, fuming again. The cycle never ended.

She stopped talking unless I addressed her.

The fire in her was dimmer. Not gone, but hidden. Like a candle in a storm trying not to go out.

That should have satisfied me. I had broken her spirit.

But I wasn’t satisfied.

I was restless. Angry. Hateful. Not just at her, but at myself for still checking on her through the security cameras when I was in my office. For still asking William if she was eating. For still keeping painkillers and antiseptic in the top kitchen drawer just in case she fell again.

The worst part?

The worst part was when she smiled once—just once—when she caught me glancing at her from across the room. A sad, small smile.

And I turned my back on her.

Because if I didn’t, I’d be the one falling again.

And she? She’d already made it clear she knew how to break me.

She was still on her semester break. That was the only reason she hadn’t gone back to class yet. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself—like knowing it was temporary would somehow make the weight of her presence feel lighter.

But it didn’t.

Because every damn day after work, no matter how much I convinced myself I hated her, no matter how coldly I tried to treat her, it was her I wanted to see the moment I walked through the door. And I loathed myself for it.

Tonight, I came back later than usual, my mind foggy from the drinks at the business meeting. I hadn’t meant to drink that much, hadn’t meant to stay that long, but I’d needed something to dull the ache she kept buried beneath my skin.

I walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and there she was.

She was doing the dishes. Her back was to me, the curve of her spine outlined beneath a simple cotton dress, her hair falling in messy waves down her back. Just the sight of her hit me like a punch to the gut. I don’t know if it was the alcohol still buzzing in my blood or the goddamn loneliness, or maybe just the constant frustration burning me alive—but fuck, I missed her. I wanted her.

Before I could stop myself, I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around her from behind.

She gasped, her body tensing for a second—but she didn’t pull away.

I buried my face against the crook of her neck, breathing her in. That familiar perfume. Soft, floral, faintly sweet. I remembered how it used to cling to my skin after nights tangled in her sheets. I remembered how she used to moan my name—like it was the only word that mattered. I wanted to hear it again. Wanted to lose myself in her again and again until everything else disappeared.

My hands moved on their own. Sliding over her stomach, up to her chest. I found her breasts, full and warm, even beneath the fabric. My fingers curled around them, thumb brushing over the peaks now tightening beneath my touch.

She shuddered.

And still—she didn’t stop me. She leaned into me.

That should’ve been my warning. That should’ve been my cue to let go, to walk away.

But I didn’t.

Just this once, I told myself. She’s still legally my wife.

It was a lie. A weak, desperate one. But I clung to it.

I turned her around, and the moment our eyes met, it was over.

I grabbed her face and kissed her hard—desperate, hungry, all the things I’d been trying to bury for weeks. She melted into me, and I hated how much I needed that. Hated that even now, after everything, I still craved her like a man starved.

And I wasn’t sure which one of us I hated more.

ate sequence, or if you’d prefer a dramatic interruption or emotional shift mid-way.