Katherine's POV

Reluctantly, I lowered my hands from my face, blinking into the soft, gray light seeping through the curtains. The faint glow of the overcast London sky bathed the room in a muted haze, its dullness pressing down. No blinding sun, no warmth—just a pale, dreary light that matched the heaviness in my chest.

When I finally sat up, my feet dangled over the edge of the bed, brushing against the plush off-white carpet. I rubbed my knuckles into my eyes, letting out a deep yawn as I stretched my arms overhead. My body felt sluggish, weighed down by both exhaustion and the ache of too many restless thoughts.

I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand, its bold green numbers blinking at me. Almost noon.

I let out a groan. "Lazy," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. "This pregnancy is turning me into a professional sleeper."

The air in the room was cold as I shuffled toward the bathroom to freshen up, the chill biting faintly at my skin. After throwing on something comfortable and taming my hair into something passable, I cracked the door open cautiously.

The hallway was dim and quiet. I stepped out, my footsteps soft as I moved, eyes darting around like I was navigating a minefield—or, more accurately, trying to avoid him.

I'd stayed locked in my room since last night, too furious to face him. The anger I'd felt had dulled, but the ache from what had happened still burned beneath the surface.

I descended the stairs slowly, the faint scent of morning tea lingering in the air. As I reached the living room, I spotted Skyla tidying around. She looked up from her work, her face breaking into a kind smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ry— I mean, Katherine," she said, catching herself quickly when she saw my expression falter.

If she only knew how much I hated that name.

"Morning, Skyla," I replied with a small smile, though my gaze wandered past her, scanning the room and the house for any signs of him.

"He left early in the morning," she said, her voice gentle but knowing, understanding my silent question.

"Oh," I said, feeling a wave of relief wash over me.

I turned to leave, to let her finish her work, but her voice stopped me.

"Katherine," she called, motioning toward the counter. "I found these papers here. Do you want me to get rid of them?"

I stepped closer, my heart lurching the moment my eyes landed on the pile of ripped paper scattered across the counter. The contract.

Why would he rip it up?

Confusion swirled in my chest as I approached, my gaze falling on a small yellow note tucked beside the torn pieces.

I picked it up, instantly recognizing the handwriting. His handwriting.

"I didn't send these papers. I would never do that. I hope you will believe me.
—Ashton"

My breath hitched, my fingers tightening around the note.

The words blurred as a storm of emotions surged through me—confusion, disbelief, a flicker of guilt I didn't want to acknowledge. If he didn't send them, then who?

And how was his signature on them?

Is he lying? The question clawed at my mind, battling with the small part of me that wanted to believe him.

My chest tightened as thoughts raced and tangled, each one more chaotic than the last. And beneath all the turmoil, guilt whispered its ugly truth.

I had blamed him. Lashed out at him. Thrown my hurt at his feet.

I shouldn't feel guilty, he shouts at me all the time too!

But maybe...

Stop. I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.

I was in the middle of debating with myself when a light tap on my shoulder startled me, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I turned to find Skyla watching me, her lips moving, probably calling my name. I had been so lost in my own thoughts that I hadn't heard her.

"You can throw them," I said abruptly, motioning toward the shredded papers, my fingers so tight around the yellow note, still trying to process Ashton's words.

If it wasn't him, then who sent those papers?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The rest of the day slipped by in a haze. Skyla excused herself early—her daughter was in labor, and I insisted she take not just the day but the rest of the week off to be with her family.

At first, she resisted, fussing about her duties and saying she couldn't leave me to fend for myself. Apparently, those were Ashton's orders; for her never to leave me alone.  But I reassured her, promising that I'd manage just fine and that I'd even talk to Ashton if needed. Reluctantly, she agreed, her smile soft and grateful before she left.

And then I was alone.

Too much time on my hands and no idea what to do with it. My feet led me to the kitchen almost by instinct, where I started to prepare food. Not because I was particularly hungry, but because it gave me something to do—something to occupy my hands and quiet the endless storm in my mind. A very good distraction.

Though if I was being honest with myself, a part of me—a pathetic part of me—hoped Ashton might come home early. That we might sit and eat dinner together like a normal couple.

God, you're so lame, I thought, biting my lip as I stirred the pot in front of me. And pathetic.

I hated him, sometimes. Hated the effect he still had on me. Hated that no matter how much I told myself otherwise, I could never really hate him. Not completely.

The sound of the front door opening snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. My stomach twisted—not with dread, but with something I didn't want to name.

I hurriedly grabbed the book I hadn't been reading and pretended to flip through it as Ashton walked in.

My eyes betrayed me, darting to him the moment he stepped closer. He looked...tired, the usual sharpness in his expression was dulled. He thrives on overworking himself, doesn't he? I thought, a pang of something unbidden tugging at my chest. Work was his escape—from me, from everything, and from all of his problems.

"You're home early," I blurted out, my voice a little too eager, a little too curious. Jesus Katherine, get a grip. One small note he wrote, and you're acting like he's an entirely different person.

He raised a brow at my comment, his tone surprisingly neutral, almost normal, "I finished work earlier today."

No clipped reply. No harsh tone. Just a simple, straightforward answer.

Weird.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, fidgeting slightly with the corner of the book. Why was I even starting this conversation?

"No, not really," he said, and just like that, whatever faint flicker of hope I had extinguished.

Disappointment tugged at my chest, but I swallowed it down, forcing myself to stand.

"But I was waiting for you," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "So we can eat together, I mean," I rubbed a hand over my burning throat, "I...uh cooked, for us."

Did I really just say that out loud?

His brows furrowed slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Clearly, after last night's outburst, this was the last thing he expected from me.

"You...cooked?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure out my angle.

"I did," I said, biting my lip nervously. "And I'd like you to join me."

The silence that followed was suffocating. He studied me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, his hesitation painfully obvious.

"Umm...okay," he finally said, his tone uncertain, like he wasn't sure if this was a trap.

I couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at my lips.

"Great," I said, a little too brightly.

I give up on myself, seriously, I do.

He gave a small nod, his gaze still studying me cautiously, "I'll take a shower first, if that's okay."

I nodded, "Sure," I need to stop smiling.

As he turned and headed upstairs, I let out a slow breath.

Why am I so glad my husband is going to eat dinner with me?

I pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on it as I busied myself with heating up the food and setting the table. For the first time, this marriage felt like it could have a sliver of normalcy. And I wasn't sure whether that terrified or comforted me.

I was setting the plates when I heard the soft thud of footsteps descending the stairs. My movements faltered as Ashton came into view, and every coherent thought I had scattered like fallen leaves.

He was wearing grey sweatpants, the ones that hung low on his hips, effortlessly hinting at the sculpted frame beneath. A plain white t-shirt clung to him, stretched just enough over his broad shoulders and chest to leave no room for imagination.

His hair was still damp, a few stray strands brushing over his forehead, and he was typing away on his phone, completely oblivious to the way I was shamelessly staring.

Everything about him radiated a kind of effortless allure that felt almost otherworldly. He didn't try to be handsome—he just was.

How can someone be so mean and still look like that?

I hated it. Hated him. Hated how he made everything infinitely harder just by existing. My chest tightened as I realized I wasn't breathing properly.

As if sensing the weight of my gaze, he looked up. His beautiful blue eyes locked onto mine, catching me in the act.

Busted.

My cheeks burned, and I quickly averted my eyes, pretending to adjust the cutlery, my hands fumbling with the spoons. I could feel his gaze lingering, probably amused at my clumsy attempt to act nonchalant as he seated himself.

I sat down across from him, my nerves buzzing as I watched him from the corner of my eye.

The table was set. The food looked decent—at least, I hoped it did. I wasn't exactly a cook genius and I decided to keep it simple—a lemon butter pasta with roasted chicken and a quick cucumber and tomato salad. Cara had taught me this pasta recipe ages ago, calling it foolproof. It wasn't fancy, but it was something I could make.

I wasn't sure if Ashton would like it though, but I had tried.

I glanced at him, my gaze darting up just in time to see him taking his first bite. His expression was unreadable as he chewed, slowly, silently, and he didn't stop, which I hoped was a good sign.

Realizing he wasn't going to offer any feedback, I picked up my fork and took a bite myself, tasting the dish for salt, spices, and anything I might've messed up.

"You don't have to cook," Ashton said suddenly, breaking the silence. His tone was neutral and casual. "Next time, just tell me, and I'll order something for you." He paused, his eyes still on his plate. "I'll hire someone to take Skyla's place until she's back."

My fork froze midway to my mouth. My stomach twisted painfully.

Oh no. He didn't like it.

Sometimes, I can't control my facial expressions, my mom used to tell me that I carry my heart on my sleeves. And now, I couldn't hide the way my face paled, or the hurt that flashed in my eyes as I looked at him. My brows drew closer, and my appetite was long gone. Maybe, I was overreacting to a small comment, maybe I was sensitive, or maybe I was just pregnant with hormones...

Ashton looked up, his fork halting midway to his mouth as his eyes locked onto mine. His brows furrowed slightly, and for the first time, he looked genuinely unsettled.

"It's delicious, Katherine," he said quickly, almost nervously, as if realizing his mistake. "I just meant...you don't have to tire yourself, that's all."

I nodded, but the lump in my throat made it hard to speak. My gaze dropped to my plate, where my fork aimlessly twirled the pasta.

I could feel him staring at me still.

"Katherine," He called for me again. 

I glanced up, swallowing hard.

"I really like it, thank you," he mumbled, his voice softer than ever, his gaze tender, like he wanted to reach forward and wrap me in his arms, like I was a kid who'd burst into tears any moment now.

My lips twitched into a very small smile and I nodded my head.

He let out a low breath, "You're full of surprises," he added after a beat, taking another bite.

I looked at him, "Me?"

He nodded his head, "Last night you asked me to stay away from you and now you want us to have dinner together," He commented, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Well," I licked my dry lips, "Don't get used to it. This is a one-time thing."

He kept looking at me for a moment too long, and the corner of his lip pulled up slightly, his smile was barely there but it made my chest flutter against my will.

"I didn't send those papers," He said, a bit out of the blue, finally addressing it.

I met his gaze, and I believed him. I nodded slowly, my heart feeling strangely lighter.

He rested his fork down and reached for the glass of water, "Though you shouldn't be surprised if I did," He said, his tone switching back to its previous coldness.

And here he goes ruining everything again.

My fingers curled over the side of the table, "Excuse me," I said.

His eyes fell into mine, "You know what you did, Katherine," He said, his voice low and calm, measured and I felt myself splintering, the anger fighting its way to the surface.

"Anyone else in my shoes would have done much worse," He added.

My eyebrow raised, "Oh, so I should be thankful for you being so merciful to me, shouldn't I," I shot out in a sarcastic tone, the fury burning at my chest. I wanted to hit him, to wipe that calm composed look off his face.

His jaw tightened, "What I am saying is—"

"I know what I did, Ashton," I snapped, cutting him off, not in the mood to listen to any more of his bullshits, "It was wrong, I know, and I regret it, and I hate myself for it every day," I said, "But if you're going to keep punishing me for the rest of my life, then just say it."

A bit of shock at my response flickered in his eyes but I wasn't done. He had pushed me too far, on the wrong day, at the wrong moment.

"You talk about what I did like it was unforgivable," I said, "What about you?"

He knew I was heading there, I could see him embrace himself for the impact.

"I know it was an accident, Ashton, but you killed the man that I love," I said, each word loud and clear, "You killed the man that I was going to marry," I added, not holding back, "It was an accident, but it was your car that crashed into his," I said, my jaw tight, "You did it."

His breath hitched, the weight of my accusation hitting him like a punch to the gut. Good. Let him feel it.

"On that day, I lost everything," I added and I watched as each word killed him, brought him down, and twisted the knife I stuck in his back, "So, I snapped, I was angry, hurt and I wanted to hurt you, so I did. But don't sit there and act like a martyr, Ashton, because anyone else in my shoes?" I leaned forward, throwing his own words back at him with venom, "They would've done much worse to you."

I pushed back my chair, the screech of wood against tile slicing through the thick tension in the room. I was done, ready to leave the wreckage of this conversation behind, when the doorbell rang.

The sharp sound echoed through the silence, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Ashton wiped his mouth, his entire body taut with barely restrained fury. He stood up, his jaw ticking, and made his way toward the door with measured steps, every muscle in his being tense and rigid.

I followed behind, my footsteps hesitant, pausing at a safe distance as he opened the door. When it swung open, the figure standing on the other side seemed to pull all the air from the room.

Mark Ryder.

His father.

"What are you doing here?" Ashton's voice was low but the undercurrent of anger was unmistakable.

Mark stepped forward slightly, his presence filling the space with an oppressive weight. He didn't even glance at Ashton at first. His eyes found me instead, and the amount of disdain in his gaze was like a physical blow.

He brushed the raindrops off his coat as he stepped inside, his tone maddeningly calm. "This is my property, isn't it?" he said, his tone somewhat light.

His eyes flicked back to Ashton, but only for a moment before they returned to me, lingering like a predator sizing up its prey. "I don't think I made my point clear over the phone," Mark said, his voice calm and calculated.

I didn't need context to understand. The phone call had been about me. Every look, every sneer, screamed it.

"I don't care what point you think you made," Ashton snapped, the anger I caused seconds ago bubbling to the surface, "What matters is that I made my point," He hissed, his hand reaching for his father's arm, stopping him from walking down the path leading to me.

Ashton edged his head closer to his father, and even though his hissed words were so low, I managed to hear them, "Stay away from her," He grated out, his grip over his arm tightening though he might shatter the bone beneath it.

Mark finally looked away from me, his eyes falling on his son's face, "I did this for your own good, Ashton," His gaze flickered down to the tight grip on his arm and he pulled his arm back, "You might not see it now, but one day, you'll understand. I don't want what happened before to happen again."

Ashton didn't budge back, "Get out, now," He said, his voice though low, it held such a dangerous tilt that even scared me.

Mark didn't flinch. "You can hate me all you want, but everything I've done was to protect you."

"Protect me?" Ashton's voice rose, his control shattering like glass, "You did all you did just to control and manipulate my entire life, like you always wanted," He grated out, "So no, you can't take any decision regarding my marriage, you can't come here to pass judgment on my wife!"

My heart squeezed so tight. Why was he still defending me, even after everything I had done to him?

Mark scoffed, a cold, humorless sound. "Your wife?" he repeated, the word dripping with disdain, his eye meeting mine, "She's the reason everything fell apart. She's why you lost everything," His voice rose a bit, "And don't forget who gave it back to you. Everything you have back, Ashton—it's because of me."

He was hitting him where it hurts the most.

"She is a liability, Ashton, she will ruin you again, and deep down, you know it."

Ashton's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white, "I don't care about your opinion, you don't know her."

Mark's calm façade faltered, his eyes narrowing. "I know enough. Enough to see that she's dragging you down," He shot out, bewildered, and behind that anger, there was concern for his son, and I knew all too well that I deserved all of his blame.

"I know that ever since the day she betrayed you, you haven't been the same. You don't sleep. You barely eat. You bury yourself in work until you collapse. I know you've been having those asthma attacks nearly every damn day, and you can't tell me it's not because of her!"

My heart dropped down as I witnessed firsthand the destruction I've caused. I couldn't deny that my guilt was heavier, much heavier than my anger for him. My guilt was ripping me apart. My guilt pushed me to cling to anger, to throw at his face the words I said minutes ago. Mark was right, I ruined his life. He trusted me, in a time where he trusted no one.

Now, he is lost in the aftermath; Me. My actions, the baby I am carrying. His baby.

He is lost.

Just like I am.

"Get out," Ashton's words were final. He wasn't going to indulge Mark in his game any further, and his father understood that.

He nodded his head, "Just be careful, Ashton," He turned to leave, and cast one final glance over his shoulder, "I can't always be there to save you."

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving a silence so heavy it was almost unbearable.

Ashton stood there, his chest heaving, his shoulders trembling as he stared at the closed door.

Then, without a word, he turned.

He didn't look at me.

Not even a glance.

He brushed past me as though I weren't there, his steps heavy with the weight of unspoken words. The space between us felt colder, emptier, and I stood rooted, unable to speak, unable to stop him.

My heart squeezed painfully, twisting itself into knots as I watched his retreating form. Despite everything—despite the anger, the resentment, and the mess we'd made of each other—I still cared for him. Deeply.

I hated myself for it, but the sight of him like this—crushed and broken—tore through me, leaving my wounds raw and exposed.

He disappeared up the stairs, leaving me standing alone in the silence, the echoes of our fight, of his father's words lingering all around, suffocating me.

I walked into my room right after that, and collapsed onto the bed, my body trembling with the weight of my guilt and grief. The tears didn't stop; they poured relentlessly, carving hot trails down my cheeks. Each one was fueled by the ache in my chest, the sharp reminder of everything I had ruined, and everything I had lost.

I buried my face into the pillow, muffling the sound of my tears but they couldn't quiet the storm in my head. Every mistake, every wrong decision, every cruel word I'd thrown at Ashton played on repeat, clawing at me.

Why did all of this happen? Why didn't I grieve Chase in silence? Why did I have to go after Ashton and destroy the person who had trusted me?

The tears slowed eventually, leaving me empty, and hollow. My body felt heavy, my mind numb, too exhausted to keep reliving the same torment.

I just need a break, just one fleeting moment of peace.

I pressed my hand under my head, curling into the mattress as exhaustion pulled at me. Maybe I could escape it all, even for a little while.

Then came the knock at my room's door.

Soft. Hesitant.

My heart clenched, my breath caught. I shut my eyes tightly, willing him to think I was asleep and leave me alone. I wasn't in the right state to discuss all that happened over the past hour.

The door creaked open.

I stilled, my body tensing as I heard his footsteps approaching.

The sound of his steps grew louder, and closer. He wasn't leaving.

Can't he see that I am sleeping...

I fought to keep my breathing even, to maintain the illusion of sleep. My heart pounded in my chest as I felt him stop beside me.

And then the mattress dipped.

He sat down. Right next to me.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting, my hands clenching the sheets as I fought to stay still.

He let out a soft sigh, a sound that carried so much...regret.

There was a long moment of silence, and then he broke it, "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, raw, filled with a vulnerability I hadn't heard from him in so long.

I wasn't sure as to why he was apologizing. I should be apologizing too.

"I don't even know what for exactly," he admitted, letting out another sigh. "For everything, I guess."

"God, Katherine, I am—" There was pain in his voice, a tortured whisper I wished to be deaf and never hear, "I am just so tired," He added, finding a semblance of solace in speaking in my presence, even if I was asleep.

"It's so tiring to pretend to hate you," He confessed and my heart shattered in my chest, the shards so sharp they felt like they could penetrate him too.

I stayed silent, unmoving, silently unraveling.

"I shouldn't have said that earlier," He added, "Not when you've made an effort and..." I could hear the hint of a smile in his voice, "And cooked for us," He added, his voice held a bit of amusement, as if my simple act of preparing a meal meant much more.

"I just...I've been all over the place since I saw those papers last night," He paused, his voice tight with frustration, "I was so angry, I am angry, it feels like the only emotion I am capable of feeling these days."

"My father sent them to you, he wants to protect my money, his money," Ashton continued bitterly. "He doesn't trust you after what happened. But I won't let him interfere in my life."

His voice softened, and I felt my heart clench painfully.

"I trust you, Katherine," he murmured, his words barely above a whisper.

How could he?

"I really do," He added, "I know you, because, I know you and I refuse to believe that everything we lived through was just a lie, the Katherine I knew, she can't lie like that."

"I trust you," He repeated, "I know you accepted all of this just because you care about our child."

Our child.

The way he said it—it was the first time he had called the baby ours. It broke something in me, and I had to fight the urge to reach for him.

I felt his fingers brush against my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. His hand lingered, its warmth seeping into my skin, making my heart race and my stomach flutter.

"I'm really sorry," he whispered again.

"You know," he added after a moment, "it's much easier to talk to you when you're asleep. At least you're not interrupting me every five seconds."

It took everything in me not to smile at his weak attempt at humor.

Then, he did something that made my breath catch in my throat. I felt him lean in so close, his lips pressed gently to my forehead.

The touch was so tender, so filled with an emotion he'd never admit aloud, it shattered the fragile barriers I'd tried to put up.

"Sometimes," he whispered against my skin, so quietly I almost didn't hear it, "I just hate how much I'm still in love with you."

My chest tightened, my heart racing wildly as I lay frozen, his words echoing in my mind.

I felt the mattress shift as he stood, his footsteps retreating, slow and heavy. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence rushed back like a wave.

My eyes snapped open.

His words replayed in my head, over and over, until they were all I could hear.

Tears welled in my eyes again as I stared up at the ceiling, my heart heavy with emotions I couldn't control.

What he didn't know—what he could never know—was that I felt the same.

And I hated it, too.