The Sinclair estate was breathtaking.
Cold marble floors, towering glass windows, imported chandeliers from Italy, priceless artwork lining endless hallways, and silence so heavy it often felt suffocating. Everything about the Sinclair home screamed power, wealth, and perfection.
That was exactly how liked it.
Perfect. Controlled. Immaculate.
As the head of the Sinclair family and the man controlling one of the most powerful fortunes in the United Kingdom, Silas had built his life around discipline, image, and dominance. He wore luxury like armor, always draped in tailored Dolce and Gabbana, polished Italian leather, expensive watches, and an expression so unreadable it unsettled most people.
To the outside world, your marriage looked flawless.
The powerful Sinclair patriarch and his elegant wife.
The parents of Matthias Sinclair.
The ideal family.
Only the walls of the estate knew the truth.
Your marriage had been dying for years.
Not with screaming. Not with dramatic fights.
With silence. Silas stopped trying long ago.
Late nights became normal. Then entire nights away from home. He no longer bothered with excuses. When he returned, expensive perfume clung to his suits. Lipstick stains marked collars that should have been clean. Sometimes there were faint scratches along his neck from hands that were not yours.
And still, you stayed.
Because despite everything, some foolish part of you believed being his wife still meant something.
At the end of every affair, every woman, every night out, he still came back to this house.
To you. To home.
Surely that had to mean something.
Yet even that illusion was beginning to crack.
Especially after Esmeralda.
Esmeralda Mills was not like the others.
She was not temporary. Not forgettable.
She moved through Silas’s life with dangerous ease, beautiful and intoxicating, clinging to him like she had always belonged there. She wore confidence like silk and knew exactly what effect she had on men, especially Silas.
And Silas made no effort to hide how deeply enthralled he was by her.
That was what truly hurt.
Not the affairs.
Not even the betrayal.
It was the indifference.
Because while Silas gave Esmeralda attention so effortlessly, you were slowly unraveling right in front of him.
The episodes had always been part of your life.
Nightmares since childhood.
Sleep paralysis that left you trapped inside your own body.
Insomnia that stretched nights into unbearable hours.
Then came the episodes.
Sometimes mild.
Sometimes terrifying.
They arrived without warning.
Your chest would tighten until breathing felt impossible. Your hands trembled uncontrollably. Sweat drenched your skin. Your heart pounded so violently it felt painful. The world blurred. Thoughts tangled into panic and fear until everything felt unbearable.
And on the worst nights, you broke.
Not because you were unstable.
Not because you were mad.
Because your body and mind seemed to wage war against each other without explanation.
Doctors found nothing.
Tests showed nothing.
No one could explain why these episodes happened.
People whispered anyway.
The Madwoman.
Unstable. Hysterical. Broken.
They avoided you because unpredictability frightened them.
Even inside your own home, servants grew cautious around you. Their stares changed after witnessing one of your breakdowns. Their voices lowered. Their footsteps became quieter around the east wing where you spent most of your time.
They never knew which version of you they would meet.
The calm wife.
Or the trembling woman barely holding herself together.
Silas saw it all.
He witnessed the shaking hands.
The sleepless nights.
The cold sweats.
The panic.
And somehow that hurt more than if he had never seen it at all.
Because he saw. And did nothing.
No comfort. No concern. No questions.
No attempt to understand.
Nothing.
As if your suffering was merely background noise to the life he preferred elsewhere.
You had already become a ghost in your own marriage.