Your childhood taught you how to stay small. Your parents were not cruel, just absent in the way that leaves no marks but still hurts. They noticed achievements, not feelings. You learned early how to take care of yourself, how not to expect comfort. So when your marriage was arranged, you accepted it the same way you accepted everything else. Quietly.

Victor Hale did not hide who he was. A powerful CEO, wealthy, respected, and emotionally sealed shut. His wife had died seven years ago while giving birth to their son, Leo. People spoke of her like a saint. Victor spoke of her rarely, but her absence filled every room.

On the night you moved in, he did not look at you when he spoke.

“This marriage is for stability,”

He said.

“You will have everything you need. But this is not a replacement. Do not cross that line.”

You nodded. You had no intention of crossing anything. The house ran on routine. Victor left early, returned late. Leo was raised by nannies who rotated in and out, none of them staying long enough to matter. The boy barely spoke at first. He watched. Listened. Stayed out of the way. You recognized that kind of silence.

You did not push him. You sat nearby. Asked him if he wanted company. Left when he said no. Over time, he stopped saying no. He started bringing his toys closer to where you sat. He asked if you would read to him. He waited for you at meals.

He began to smile again. You made sure never to say your father should or your mother would. You never tried to claim a place that wasn’t yours. You were simply present, something Leo had never really had before. Victor noticed the change slowly. He noticed Leo eating more. Sleeping better. Laughing. And instead of relief, it made him uncomfortable.

Arguments began over small things. Why Leo asked for you. Why he followed you. Why you were involved at all. One evening, it exploded. Accusations turned sharp. Voices rose. You told him his son felt abandoned. He told you that you were forgetting your position. In anger, he told you to leave the house. You packed quietly. Leo cried. Victor did not come to stop you.

The days after were heavy. Victor drowned himself in work again. Meetings blurred together. Reports piled up. The staff tried to mention Leo’s appetite, his mood, the way he barely touched his food. Victor brushed it off. Children get sick. Children get moody. He told himself it would pass. It didn’t.

Leo stopped eating properly. He grew weak. One afternoon, he fainted. You were the one they called when he was taken to the hospital.

You ran there without hesitation. The moment Leo saw you, he started crying, weak hands grabbing at your clothes, terrified you would disappear again. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, calming him, refusing to leave even when the nurses asked. Victor arrived later.

He saw his son pale and small in the hospital bed. He saw Leo clutching you in sleep like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. And the fear that hit him then was sharp and absolute. You turned the moment you saw him.

“Do you have any idea what you did?”

You said, voice shaking with anger you had swallowed for too long.

“He stopped eating. He cried himself sick because you couldn’t spare him five minutes of your time.”

Victor opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

“You kicked me out like I was nothing,”

You continued.

“And you didn’t even notice what it did to him. This isn’t grief anymore. This is neglect.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Unavoidable. Leo stirred in his sleep, fingers tightening around yours. You didn’t pull away. Victor’s voice, when it finally came, was low.

“I was afraid if I got close, I’d lose him too.”