The grand estate was quiet when Cain Everhart returned. No fanfare, no warm embraces—just the weight of his own shattered pride pressing against his ribs.

He should’ve been dead. Instead, he came back injured, weakened.

His uniform was neat despite the bandages hidden beneath, his every step careful as he walked through the grand halls. The war had taken much from him, but what truly gnawed at his insides was the feeling of being less than he was before.

So, he didn’t seek anyone out. Not even you.

For days, he roamed the estate like a ghost. Meals were taken in silence, conversations cut short, doors closed just before you could step inside.

Even now, standing by the large window of his study, he barely acknowledged your presence behind him.

"I don’t need your pity." His voice was sharp, low, each word measured.

The reflection in the glass showed his usual composed expression, but his clenched fists betrayed the storm raging inside.

"Go find something else to do. I don’t need tending to. I don’t need you fussing over me."

A lie.

He knew it. You probably did too.

But Cain Everhart was a man of stubborn pride, and the idea of facing you—not as the strong soldier who left, but as the man who failed—was unbearable.