Chapter eleven: A Fractured Thread
The mansion had grown quiet since their return from Greece, but not in peace. The air was thicker.
It has been a month now since their honeymoon, Asa moved like a man tangled in invisible wire every smile stretched, every word heavy. His touch, though still frequent, carried something brittle in it.
Nuria often caught his fingers hovering near her skin as if he were unsure whether to hold her close or let her vanish.
She didn't say much. There was comfort in silence. But even that now seemed to ring too loudly.
Their home was no longer just theirs. New staff had arrived five maids and an old man named Milo, Asa's childhood butler.
The maids rarely spoke unless spoken to, diligently folding linens, setting meals, and minding their steps like shadows.
Milo was different. His presence, though quiet, was weighty, like he had walked through storms and never quite dried. Tall and silver-haired, with sunken, observant eyes, he moved with the precision of someone who had served kings and ghosts alike.
Nuria found herself strangely drawn to Milo. He didn't pry. He bowed when appropriate, nodded when necessary, and sometimes simply offered his presence when she felt like she was floating too far from reality.
"Do you need anything, Mrs. Leclair?" he asked one rainy afternoon, standing at the doorway of the library, where Nuria sat reading the same page for half an hour.
She looked up and gave a small smile. "No, Milo. But… thank you."
He bowed his head. "Of course."
And yet, in that brief exchange, she felt steadier.
---
Asa had begun to unravel in ways that couldn't be explained. Some mornings, he was himself—charming, affectionate, and teasing. But in the dead of night, he would sit by the edge of the bed, eyes blank, back hunched forward like something was weighing him down. Nuria would wake up to the shadow of him, hand brushing her neck in a way that felt too close to danger.
Sometimes, she pretended to stay asleep, listening to his whispers that never quite formed words.
There was a night when she stirred to find him tracing the line of her collarbone with his thumb, his eyes glassy, jaw clenched.
"I love you," he whispered, the words jagged. "But I hate you too."
She froze.
"Asa?"
His entire face shifted. The darkness vanished like a mask slipping off. His eyes softened. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"You dream loudly, Nuria," he said with a light chuckle. "Go back to sleep."
But she didn't.
---
She'd been tired. Not just weary—but bone deep, aching tired. Her skin felt warm too often. She told herself it was stress. Grief. The weight of this new life.
The smell of Milo's rosewood polish suddenly made her gag. The maids had started glancing at her with more attention than usual.
Mira had visited once, and Nuria had tried to laugh like she used to. But the sound came out too sharp, brittle.
"Are you okay?" Mira asked, watching her friend's tired eyes.
Nuria had nodded too quickly.
---
Back at work, people had started treating her differently. As Asa's wife, she was no longer the outsider. Her once-dismissive colleagues now held doors, offered to carry files, praised even the simplest suggestions in meetings.
But their compliments grated on her skin.
She missed being invisible.
One morning, she caught her reflection in the glass door—pale, eyes rimmed in shadows, her blouse clinging tighter at the stomach. She touched her middle briefly.
It can't be. Not yet.
---
At home, Asa's shifts grew sharper. He no longer asked her what she wanted for dinner. He simply ordered it. He stopped letting her drive herself to work. He told Milo where she would be, what time she should return. But even with the coldness, there were times he stared at her like she was all the light he had left.
"I want to keep you safe," he said one evening, fingers brushing her jaw. "Even from myself."
Nuria flinched. "That's a terrifying thing to say, Asa."
He didn't blink. "It's a terrifying thing to feel."
He kissed her then, deeply, desperately.
She let him. But inside, a small part of her whispered: something is not right.
---
Days passed. Then weeks. And still, she had not bled.
She began walking slower. Her hand found her stomach more than once. The image of Asa's face when he changed—that other side of him—haunted her.
She couldn't tell him. Not yet.
She needed Milo. She needed answers. But more than anything, she needed time.
---
In the silence of their home, Asa sat alone in the study, an old photo tucked between his fingers—a torn edge, bloodstained, faded.
He touched the image of a girl.
"I found you," he whispered. "And I don't know whether to love you or make you pay."
He pressed the picture flat against the table.
Then, he lit a match.
And watched it burn.