He Wanted Me Dead, Now He Pleads

“Milo isn’t stable,” I told him quietly. “I need to leave for a while and stay with him. I need your signature on this travel authorization.”

He didn’t bother scanning the paper. Didn’t ask a single question. He took the pen, scribbled his name carelessly, and shoved it back at me.

“Go ahead,” he said indifferently. “Look after the boy.”

That was it.

He didn’t ask what had happened. Didn’t ask if Milo was in danger. Didn’t ask anything at all. In fact, by the time I lifted my face, he was already smiling again—relieved, even. As if my leaving solved an inconvenience for him.

I walked out of the mansion before the sun rose. The pot of soup I had made the night before still sat on the table, untouched and congealed with cold.

Just like everything else in that house.

Adrian didn’t come to see me off.

The drive to my father’s estate took more than six hours. The farther we traveled, the heavier my chest felt. When the gates finally came into view, they looked just as imposing as they had in my childhood—tall black iron crowned with the Calderon crest, guarded by stone-faced men in gray uniforms. The hedges were clipped with brutal precision. Nothing had changed.

Except me.

I was thinner now. My face sharper. My body worn down in ways no sleep could fix. I felt older than I should have been.

I stepped out of the car alone and walked toward the main doors. No maid rushed forward. No servant bowed. The massive estate lay in complete silence, watching me like a living thing.

Then the doors opened.

And there he stood.

Duke Rafe Calderon.

His silver-streaked hair was perfectly slicked back. His suit was immaculate, as always. His face carried no warmth, no surprise—only judgment carved deep into stone.

“So,” he said coldly. “The daughter who disgraced our family for love dares to return.”

I straightened my back despite the ache in my legs from the drive. I didn’t weep. I didn’t bow. I had already bled all my tears dry inside Adrian’s house.

I met my father’s gaze and said plainly, “The marriage arrangement you once offered me—eight years ago—does it still stand?”

Silence swallowed the air.

I could hear the faint whistle of wind between marble pillars. Somewhere far off, metal clanged as a gardener trimmed hedges. The staff stood hidden behind walls like shadows, listening.

At last, my father spoke.

“No,” he said. “That man is no longer available. He married into a family that did not tarnish my name.”

He took a step as if to close the door.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t beg.

I simply held his gaze.

He paused, hand gripping the handle.

“However,” he added slowly, “his younger brother remains unmarried. Your sister was intended for him, but she insists on finishing her education first.”

His eyes moved over me the same way they once assessed contracts and corporate mergers—measured, sharp, calculating.

“If you are willing,” he said evenly, “the position is yours.”

I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t pretend to bristle. I simply nodded.

I would marry whoever he decided.

Not for pride.

Not even for Milo anymore.

But for survival.

For power.

For what was coming next.

—

They assigned me a guest room.

It smelled faintly of dust and sharp lemon polish. Every photo I once had in this house had been removed. Even the servants avoided my eyes, as if I were no longer a living person—just a reminder of a disgrace buried years ago.

That night, after a stiff, silent dinner, I was summoned.

To meet him.

The younger brother.

The forgotten heir.

His name was Ephraim Lambert.

He waited alone in the old observatory, dressed entirely in black. The lighting was dim and muted. His features were fine yet sharp, like glass once shattered and carefully pieced back together. I had expected fragility—sickness, weakness, resignation.

Instead, he stood when I entered.

His movements were slow, deliberate—but steady. His gaze followed me closely, as if he were studying me rather than greeting me.

“So,” he said quietly, “the bride who ran away has finally returned.”

My throat locked. I couldn’t speak.

He tilted his head slightly. “Tell me—did you come back seeking forgiveness… or retribution?”

I bit my lip, not in flirtation, not in coyness—only to keep my hands from trembling.

He let out a soft, knowing chuckle and turned toward the arched windows where moonlight spilled across the glass floor.

“Go,” he said after a moment. “Return when your divorce is finalized.”

I wanted to thank him.

I wanted to explain that nothing in my life was simple anymore.

But no sound came out.

So I left.

I closed the door behind me and returned to the cold room that contained no blankets, no photographs, no trace that I had ever belonged anywhere. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

Breathing.

Trying to remember who I had been before love destroyed me.

Before grief carved me hollow.

Before I became this quiet, wandering ghost.

—

I never slept.

The sun rose, but the world still felt frozen in the same gray silence. Morning didn’t feel like a beginning—only another layer of quiet laid on top of the last.

I forced myself out of bed. My body kept functioning on instinct, the way it had every day since Milo fell ill, as though it no longer remembered what rest was.

The corridors of my father’s estate were cold and echoing. No one greeted me. No one acknowledged me. I sat at the massive dining table and ate a piece of dry toast that crumbled into dust on my tongue.

No butter.

No coffee.

Only silence.

Then my phone rang.

Adrian.

I answered before I could stop myself.

“We’re heading out,” he said casually. “Noah wants to try parasailing. Elise couldn’t refuse—you know how she is.”

He laughed lightly, as if sharing some harmless joke between spouses. As if Milo had never existed.

“My parents will stop by the mansion later,” he added. “Can you entertain them while they’re there?”

My throat tightened. “Alright.”

“Good,” he said, and disconnected.

No mention of the date.

No mention of Milo.

Today was his birthday.

Milo’s birthday.

I informed my father that I would return to the mansion. That I would come back once the divorce was complete. He gave no response—just sipped his coffee and continued reading the newspaper.

As if I had never left.

As if I had never returned.

—

The car carried me back to that glass palace that had never once felt like home. And the moment I stepped inside, the memory hit me like a blade.

Milo’s birthday.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I went straight to my room—the only place in that house that still held traces of him.

I lit a small candle beside his framed photo and the soft pink urn beneath it. His favorite dinosaur plush still leaned against the wall, as if waiting for him to return and scoop it into his arms.

No one remembered.

No calls.

No flowers.

No messages.

Not from Adrian.

Not from his parents.

They were all too busy celebrating Noah.