The fire in the hearth had long burned low, casting flickering shadows across the carved wood of the Ashbourne bedchamber. The party had long ended, yet the silence that followed roared louder than any music.
Adele sat at her vanity, slowly unpinning her hair, chestnut strands falling around her shoulders like silk. Her gaze was distant, blurred in the reflection of the mirror. She hadn't noticed the door open behind her.
Not until she saw him.
Henry.
His reflection joined hers — tall, broad, eyes clouded with drink and something far more volatile: longing… fear.
He said nothing at first. Just stared. As though she were a stranger in his house, not his wife.
Then, with a voice strained and hoarse, he said:
"Why can't you look at me the way you looked at him?"
Adele froze.
The comb slipped from her hand.
He took a step closer, his voice cracking.
"I see it in your eyes. Every time he's near. You glow. You breathe in a way you never do with me."
She turned, slowly.
"Henry… this is not the moment—"
"When is the moment?" he snapped. "After I'm cold in the ground and you run into his arms?"
His anger was sharp, but beneath it was pain — the pain of a man who had everything… except the one thing he truly wanted.
Her love.
"I've done everything," he continued, almost pleading now. "I gave you this life. Security. A child. I've kept you in comfort, treated you as a queen. What must I do to make you mine, Adele?"
She stood, barely whispering.
"You already have me."
"No," he said. "Not like he does."
A heartbeat passed between them. Heavy with unsaid things.
Then Henry reached out — slow at first, almost gentle — fingers brushing her jaw, her neck.
"Let me love you tonight. Properly," he murmured. "Let me feel… that you're mine."
Adele didn't resist.
She couldn't.
She had made her choice — to protect Jason, to guard Charles, to avoid flames that would consume them all.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her.
His hands were rough in their sweetness. Hungry. As if he could carve love into her skin if he just tried hard enough. He whispered promises, desperation. He called her "angel," "beloved," "wife."
But all she felt was cold.
Every caress, every breath he took against her skin, every attempt to draw intimacy… it made her stomach twist. He was trying to be tender — a man trying to hold something that had never belonged to him.
She gave in.
And yet, she was never further away.
Afterward, he held her close, drunk with hope.
"Promise me," he whispered, slurring slightly. "Promise me you won't look at him like that again. That you'll give me another child. A full family, Adele. Ours. Just ours."
She hesitated.
Then, with a voice so soft it barely left her lips:
"I promise."
He smiled and drifted into sleep, breathing deeply beside her. His arms still wrapped around her body like chains.
Only then did the tears come.
Silent. Endless. As if they'd been waiting years for permission.
Adele lay still, afraid her sobs might wake him. Her body didn't belong to her in that moment — it was a vessel of diplomacy, sacrifice, survival.
She looked toward the dark ceiling, and whispered nothing. No prayers. No name. Just emptiness.
Her heart was a wound, and tonight had pressed it wide open.