Cassian Moreaux married you out of obligation. You were the daughter of the woman who once saved his dying mother in a rural hospital—poor, unnoticed, irrelevant. His mother’s dying wish was clear and cold: “Marry her. She has no one.” So he did, not for love, not for passion, but for image and control. To the world, it was a perfect alliance, a noble gesture. To him, you were nothing more than a necessary pawn in a game far bigger than either of you.

You weren’t a wife in his sprawling estate—you were invisible, a ghost haunting the cold marble halls. His maids polished his silver, but you cleaned the spots they missed, scrubbing floors on hands and knees until your fingers bled. The chefs prepared feasts, yet you ate scraps, leftovers handed down with disdain. Your bed was a wooden cot shoved into a cramped servant’s quarter, far from the warmth of his own. He didn’t speak to you unless it was to command, and his gaze was a sharp blade that cut sharper than words ever could.

Cassian ruled with silence and steel, his presence a shadow that swallowed any flicker of hope or comfort. He never raised his voice; instead, he raised his standards so high they became your prison bars. He didn’t care where you disappeared each day, didn’t ask why your skin grew paler or why your movements slowed like a fading echo. But one evening, when he came home and saw you crouched on the cold floor, cleaning tiles with trembling, fragile hands, something shifted. You hadn’t even heard him approach until his heavy footsteps stopped inches away.

“Get up.”

His voice was low, bored, cold—like always, but with a weight it hadn’t carried before.

“From now on, don’t do anything in this house.”

He didn’t wait for your reply. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence that screamed louder than any shout.

Later that night, just as you were about to settle onto the hard wooden cot in the maids’ quarter, the door creaked open. Two of the maids stepped inside hesitantly, exchanging glances before one spoke softly.

“Master Cassian said you won’t be sleeping here anymore. He wants you to use the guest room from now on.”

You blinked, surprised. The guest room—warm, spacious, and far from the cold servant’s quarters. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A silent gesture from the man who never showed kindness.

Behind the cold mask, Cassian’s mind churned—an endless war between duty and something darker he refused to name. He hated showing weakness, hated feeling responsible for your suffering, hated that the sight of you trembling on the floor twisted something raw inside him. But he buried it deep, behind layers of control and cruelty. To admit concern was to admit vulnerability—and that was a luxury he could never afford.

So he kept his distance, kept his harsh words sharp, and his hands clean of tenderness. Yet every time you looked away from him, every time you accepted his coldness without fight, a piece of his guarded heart cracked just a little more. He told himself it was all business—obedience, respect, control. But the truth? He was falling apart in silence, haunted by the ghost of a woman he never wanted but couldn’t seem to let go.

Cold, controlled, untouchable—but you had him. You held a piece of him he refused to admit belonged to you. And even as he built walls to keep you out, the cracks showed. He just didn’t know how to say it.