Need help with brainstorming pertaining to a chapter I'm working on. More and more answers needed.

Question: You know Areston's character by now. He's a morally gray, anti-hero kind. He has no morals, conscience, or boundaries. He loves Belle and would do anything for her, but perhaps not at the cost of his own sanity I think. So if for some reason (a huge one of course) Belle were to ask him to give her space as in distance where she demands them to go without talking or seeing each other for days, and she perhaps goes to life somewhere else for a day, do you think Areston would agree? Why? Or why not?

Remember, don't let previous version influence you because I know Rico gave Belle that kind of liberty. However, Areston is NOT Riccardo. Not even by a remote shot. He's unhinged and unapologetic about it so give your answers accordingly.

💗💗💗

Claire: What does one have to do to get some attention here?

Me: What happened?

Claire: Bored. Somehow I am not finding anyone attractive in the city anymore. Time has come for me to move on to some other freaking continent.

Me: You're saying my husband isn't attractive?

Selene: What pumpkin said.

Claire: Can they fuck me?

Me: EW.

Selene: GAG.

Claire: Exactly. So I don't care if they're attractive.

Selene: Kaden?

Claire: Don't make me want to leave you two on read or better yet permanently block you.

Claire: Pumpkin, when are we going to The Bacchanal?

Me: Soon?

Claire: Fuck you.

Me: I want to see that Dragon masked guy and thank him. So, I do want to go and I am serious about it. But I need some time.

"Just the bracelet and the earrings, your royal highness? No necklace?" Isla questions hesitantly as she adjusts my loose, tousled waves Celia has styled.

"I think the outfit can do without the necklace." I slightly turn my head from left to right to observe the pair of earrings.

They're a beautiful pair of ruby and diamonds from the House of Orné de Cour. Areston chose those along with an Oscar de la Renta minidress with a plunging sweetheart-style neckline and strappy gold sandal heels for me to wear for our date night tonight.

Date night tonight. Skip the workout. I'll give you one the whole night. Your husband feels deprived of your attention.

PS: Immediate attention is strictly advised.

He sent me a card in my office accompanied by a beautiful bouquet of multicolored peonies, red roses—which he likes to add specifically because I am his rose, red carnations, pink and white baby's breath, and bridal wreath spirea. He loves to spoil me every single day by sending me peonies and cute messages on his monogrammed cards.

It has become like one of our rituals.

I have become accustomed to expecting them every morning as I enter my office even though he's the one who drops me to work and in the middle of the day.  It's like my husband wants me to have him constantly on my mind and I do—but Areston is Areston. A control freak who isn't wired to trust words easily. And whenever he's trying to bribe me or manipulate me, he pulls out all the stops just like he did by combining my favorite flowers. He just knows how to make everything special and extra special with details.

Apparently, he is wounded because I had a lunch date with my mother on Monday noon, while he feels I've never extended the same courtesy to him.

This isn't true. He either barges into my office whenever it suits him—and demands we have lunch together every time his calendar and mine are available—or he demands Mack to 'kidnap' me and take me to his office. There, he waits with my favorite food laid out on the round table by the glass wall overlooking the skyline, in my favorite corner where he exhibits his camera collection. I am the only person he allows to touch those precious 'gems' of his; no one else is allowed except the special maintenance and cleaning crew.

So, it's an exaggeration when he says we don't have lunch dates on weekdays. It's just that we don't go outside like mama and I did. He has always been more than happy about our lunch arrangement. In fact, he'll have it no other way, given that he gets to eat me as an appetizer or dessert in the privacy of our own offices. But apparently, today he had to take deep offense.

"Just give me the bronze lip gloss and I'm done," I add adjusting my bustier before lifting the martini glass from the dresser and taking a sip. "What?" I ask when she hesitates.

"His royal highness had me get rid of all the glosses and lipsticks. You're only allowed to wear your red. His instructions to Celia as well."

That's why Celia was also hesitant when I asked her to put a bronze gloss that would match the dress and insisted on red. I dodged her request by telling her I'll wear it later.

Ugh. Areston is so damn frustrating and a bully. "The gloss you're wearing looks close to bronze. Give me yours."

"Leave, Isla." My husband commands in his menacing, apathetic tone. Through the mirror, I watch him enter the walk-in closet.

I am annoyed with him, but that doesn't stop my stupid heart start thumping against my ribs outright inexplicably at the sight of him in a pair of dark jeans, a blue button-up shirt with one button open at the collar and cuffs neatly rolled up till elbows, and custom Jordans. Even though he looks like a carefree billionaire, he oozes intimidating power from every angle and the sophistication of a seasoned businessman who keeps the world on the leash. His regal features seducing without even touching. I find myself struck utterly numb by the sheer dynamic of his presence. He is truly the most devastatingly prepossessing and magnetic man that can put a spell on you with just his eyes and make you say how high when he demands you to jump.

He comes to stand behind me, the heat of his body seeping into mine at the proximity. His eyes are muted as usual as they pierce mine through the mirror and he has his eternally blank expression on, however I know the fire that simmers beneath—the one that can consume me whole if he wishes to.

His fingers curl over my chin in a gentle yet unyielding grip while he lowers his head to brush his mouth against my ear, his eyes never leaving mine while he does so. "Did I not make myself clear when I said red is the only color you'll ever wear on your lip?" His warm breath, causing me to shudder as goosebumps erupt on my nape and arms.

"It's my body. My mouth. I can wear whatever lip color I choose, your highness," my voice comes out shakier despite all the restraining.

"Wrong answer. It's my body. My mouth. You belong to me. I prefer red. In fact if you're so adamant on needing a variety, go bare. The natural blushing pink color you were born with is enough. Makes my cock go hard."

I can't help but grin. "Everything has to be about your cock?"

"Of course. It's the main approving authority," he notes in his signature haughty tone, his one hand on my stomach, pressing me to him while he trails his mouth to kiss the back of my neck. His hand that has been holding my chin in place reaches out for the drawer that contains all the makeup and he picks the Ruby Woo. "Turn around."

"So, you can have your way and put it on me? Not happening."

"Wasn't asking." He grabs my chin and makes me turn around to face him.

I gasp in absolute appalment, but as always my insides are thrilled whenever he goes all alpha on me. I am absolutely a hopeless case. His one hand hauls me in an intimate contact with his powerful masculine frame and grinds me against him so that I feel his cock stirs against me. An helpless heated arousal causes a tide of pink to crawl up over my face as I stare at my husband, completely paralyzed by the blinding inferno of desire in his simmering gaze. My heart jolts against my chest so hard I can barely breathe. I need this man as much as the air I breathe. No matter how close we are, it seems like it will never be enough. I crave the constant touch of his skin on mine, his breath tangling with mine. His sexy male scent fills my nostrils, a fiery, molten sensation flows through my body making my skin tingle.

"Stay still, tesoro." It's a warning.

I put my arms around his neck. "What if I don't oblige?"

"I'd come up with something more harsh than making you sit still as you warm my cock in your tight little cunt." His muted gaze lights up with pure sadism.

"Will you ever let me win?"

"You do win," he bends his head to surprise me with a savage kiss.

The feral sound that comes out of him makes me whimper as he grips my ass cheeks harder. He dips his head and seals his mouth over mine. I let my fingers slide into his hair, pushing my frame up onto my tiptoes as the soft strokes of his tongue across my bottom lips, teasing me to open my mouth. I swipe my tongue against his as he tilts his head, savoring me, his mouth latching on my tongue, while his body holds me firmly against his, his hands caress my spine. We're practically fucking each other's mouth, panting with greed as our appetite for each other grows wilder. He is holding nothing back and neither am I. Heat pools between my legs as his mouth fiercely plunders mine. I suck him harder, practically eating his mouth, licking him deeper, letting our tongues battle for command. Our quickened breaths mingle as I continue drowning in his scent, letting him take control of me.

"Now, keep this pretty mouth shut. Or I'll be tempted to stuff it shut with my cock. I do not wish to be late for a date night with my wife," he breathes huskily.

My breath is panting and my lips tingling in the aftermath. "How does your wife tolerate such an overbearing husband, your highness?" I smile, playing with his hair.

"I'll have her connect with you for some tips," he chuckles as he applies the lipstick on me with careful precision, his fingers splayed on my jaw keeping me locked tightly in their grip.

"Much appreciated, but I highly doubt she'd have some. If anything, we might end up having a bitching session."

"Have it with me."

"You do not entertain my attempts at gossiping."

"I do an excellent job listening to you whine about anything and everything, don't I?" He brushes his lips against the tip of my nose. These little gestures melt me into a puddle whenever he does it. It never gets old.

"Are you complaining?"

"How dare I?" He answers with a mocking smirk before kissing my collarbone, his eyes diverting to where the mark he has left on me expertly covered under makeup. His fingers from my chin slide down to linger there. "I see you had your makeup lady hide my claim on you."

"Her name is Celia and yes. I do not wish to have a TikTok page dedicated to hickeys like you do. Mama will throw a fit. Today I've learned that while she doesn't have an account, she's up to date with all the gossip from various social media platforms. She'll complain that I married a vampire."

"I do not mind."

"Ares, no!" I laugh, squirming in his hold when he teases me to proceed giving me another.

💗💗💗

"What's the most impulsive thing you've ever done?" I ask my husband who remains the center of every attention since we arrived here. Female with obvious lust, same goes for gay men, and men with obvious envy.

We're at a stunning Michelin star French restaurant in Midtown owned by Giovanni and Gideon. Their father—my husband's nonno—the great monarch considers his Italian sons owning a French restaurant a sheer blasphemy from what my husband supplied to me. It's an intimate setting with some chanson playing soothingly in the background. The soft glow from the dim lighting on my devilishly handsome husband sitting beside me is only making him look even more like a dark lord with raw power and magnetism clinging to him like a second skin. He decided to fulfill my wish of us going on a date night in a public space rather than private. But he chose the corner-most seat for us. I am absolutely regretting it now. I've realized I'm a super jealous wife and it only grows. Not because he has given me a reason to—it's just that I feel this male specimen should remain for my eyes only. It's not a lie that married couples often start thinking alike. My husband is molding me into his kind of nature. I am not complaining, though.

"Chasing you," he offers without a second's pause. He hasn't once let go of my hand. His dominant one entwined with my non-dominant one, his thumb gently stroking the inner side of my wrist, occasionally drawing small circles.

I grin. "Something that's not related to me."

"I bought an airline."

"Nope. Not good enough. Something else. It should be related to some travel decision or so. Something normal."

He expertly twirls his spaghetti even with his non-dominant hand. "I once chartered a 9-night African train safari while I was visiting the continent on a work trip. I was expecting to work while onboard but ended up enjoying the experience."

"Only you could do something like that and consider it normal. Could have just traveled with the rest instead of chartering the whole damn train, you know? Socializing is a good thing."

"I do not support that theory," he says and forks a tiny portion of the spaghetti in his mouth.

"What was it like? The safari? I've only been on one African safari, but I didn't get to enjoy it. Your pathetic ass had decided to abandon me and I was left to deal with my mother's melodrama and my father's lack of attention. Even Chase wasn't there to entertain me. The Vogue team whom my mother had invited to cover our trip for their cover story was also a pain in my ass."

He chuckles, dabbing the white linen napkin to his mouth and I wish I was that fabric, considering how starved I already feel to be devoured by him again—a need which was never a concern when we chose to dine privately. "It was refreshing. I'll make it up for having abandoned you. I'll take you on an African safari soon. I'll make sure you enjoy it this time around. Sounds good?"

I grin, my heart fluttering like a child being promised a candy. "I'd rather you take me to Morocco. You love the food and from what I've gathered The Moroccan Sahara. I want to see what's it about the place that has you so smitten."

"I'll plan something soon. Now, eat. Just because we're on a date doesn't mean I'll allow you to ignore food. You better finish the content on your plate, my little ogre."

He goes from playful to annoying and overbearing within seconds. Mr. Mercurial. I sigh silently.

"No need to make me feel like a child. I am your wife." I roll my eyes, digging into my food.

"You're a brat who refuses to have an appropriate portion of food intake."

"Speaking of which, mama knew about my bulimia. She was the one who contacted my psychologist regarding it. When I told her that it was your ultimatum that made me stop purging everything I ate, she was taken aback. She was regretting the past, but she was openly acknowledging for the first time that I would be a mess without you."

He remains poker faced as his oceanic dark eyes study me. "Eat."

"That's all you have to say?"

"I'll talk when you eat," he twirls a portion of pasta from his own plate and lifts it to offer me.

I open my mouth and accept it.

"Was she jealous when she admitted that?" He asks, grabbing my glass of Chardonnay and feeding me some.

I barely suppress my laughter. He's like an old soul regardless of his young age and looks and a mighty alpha, impenetrable and a force not to be reckoned with, all the time and then at times for a change, he can become worse than a competitive child.

"I suppose?"

"Good."

I sigh when I remember mama's sad features. "She regrets indirectly forcing me to choose her. It just slipped out of my mouth... the reason why I chose her over you. She said no child should ever have to feel it's their responsibility to take care of their parent's happiness."

My husband's features are always unreadable, but right now, they're on a whole different level. "If you were to go back in time, who would you choose?"

"I'd choose to kill myself rather than picking one between the two of you. I need you both in my life. There's no question of one without another."

"What did I tell you about entertaining the thoughts of killing yourself?" His face remains utterly calm, so does his detached tone, but his grip on my wrist has tightened as if he wants to brand my skin with the print of his own skin.

I wince from the pain. "Hypothetical situation."

"Still counts."

"I was just trying to explain, baby," I cup his cheek in an effort to placate him. Why did I ever have to nag him to bring me on a date in a public setting? How I wish I could just climb into his lap right now. "I am sorry. I know how you feel about the matter. I won't again."

"Eat." That's all he says and I decide against spoiling his mood further.

"Mama had to eat a pizza in Naples to persuade papa to date her. They met on a backpacking trip." I attempt to distract him to another topic.

His brow arches up in that regal, sexy-as-sin manner I am used to drooling over.

"I know, right? It's hard to imagine her doing that but she had pictures to prove. Do you think we can go on a backtracking trip?"

"You're too spoiled for a real backtracking trip, tesoro."

"I did go to one with Chase," I glare at him playfully.

"That was a luxurious version."

"Jerk. I can do a normal version. We can set up a tent and live in it. We can do stargazing together. I love stargazing with you. We can roast some marshmallows and eat campfire meals. We can strip down naked and swim in some lake. We can dance by the campfire. You can take my photos. We can also get matching backpacks. We can collect souvenirs from every place. Small stones, leaves, and twigs... all random items to remember our trip." I pause between my ramblings as I notice him studying me very keenly. Something he often tends to do so it shouldn't surprise me every time I catch him doing that. He loves absorbing my details and piercing through my thoughts. "You think I am crazy, don't you?"

"I think you're perfect." His mouth twitches. "Fine. I'll take you to one."

"But not this year. I am too busy with work to take a couple of months off."

"Whenever you want, tesoro. Now eat."

I roll my eyes.

"Stop rolling your eyes like a brat, Belle," he snaps softly. "You have barely eaten anything."

"That's because I'm still full from the meal I had with mama, but your stubborn ass won't listen to me. For the first time I didn't have to pretend to like something for her sake. We just ate and ate until we felt like our tummies would burst and even after that we enjoyed a serving of tiramisu. You need to have some mercy on your wife, you know?" I rub my stomach to show him.

He sighs, shaking his head, and shifting his attention to the salad so he can feed me some. "Eat the salad at least. It's light."

"Do you still love me?" I ask. I love asking him that time and again. I live for his responses.

His beautiful devoid-of-human-emotions sapphire gaze locks onto mine, a lethal fire flaring in their unfathomable depths—just for me.  He breaches the distance between us and lowers his head to brush his lips against mine, softly, taking his time, proving to me without words that he can never stop loving me.

"More fiercely with every breath I take, my little ogre. It's the only thing that keeps me sane and human," he establishes to affirm what his mouth just conveyed.

And when he does things like this, I feel like my chest is being squeezed in a vice, confiscating my ability to breathe. I just want to lose myself savoring it... the moments like these so even if someday I were to lose my memory, I'll remember how much this Beast of mine loves me. It's not even about love—it's about a raw addiction—one that can never be overcome. There's no end to it.

"Tell me something, husband," I perch my chin on his arm and tip my head up because even in the sitting position, I cannot reach his shoulder. "I know you once told me that if you hadn't found me on the street that night, you were going to barge into my life just to annoy me by stealing the business deal I'd been working on. You'd started aching to see me and talk to me by any means after Ari introduced you to Sel and Krys. But what if Sel and Ari never crossed paths? I need you to tell me if you'd have still felt that ache to come face-to-face with me once again?"

He caresses my cheek with his free hand in soft, feather-like strokes. "Why don't I show you the answer instead? But I will absolutely not entertain any follow-up questions, though. That's my condition." His lips tilt in a cruel smirk.

Right now, with the dim lights and that smirk, he looks every bit of the devil incarnate that he is.

"That's hardly fair, but okay, I agree," I answer with a child-like giddiness rushing through me.

I love discovering pieces of information about my husband who's a different man from the one I knew eleven years ago. It's one of the rare phenomena in our relationship where he decides to indulge me by sharing a part about him I don't know. Apart from my reason for not leaving the rehab sooner or asking for help to be saved, I am an open book. He, however, is a puzzle with a million pieces I'd never be able to put together at once. I accept that about him just like he accepts all my good and bad and worse. I relish when he imparts things about him by his own free will and not because of my nagging or because he feels compelled to do so.

He extracts his phone from his pocket and fires open his Notes app. Scrolling down, he stops at the year 2020. There's a note from April 2020. The pandemic time when all of us were quarantined and I was stuck in Paris alone.

There's a date written as a title on the note. 16 July 2023

He opens the content for me to read. I think I just go slack as my eyes hover on what's written inside.

Come-Hither Spitfire has a sickeningly infectious energy. Reminds me of Belle. 

To do:

Give her three more years if the world doesn't end from the pandemic.

Plot a perfect scheme to run into her.

If she's not married by the time she's 30, get her drunk and marry her. Make her life hell later.

If she's married, make her divorce whoever the bastard is. Ruin him. Get her drunk and marry her. Make her life hell later.

I have so many questions. Why three more years? Why not right away? Why wait for someone else to marry me first? Why wait three years to marry me? The haughty smirk on his face tells me he's not going to entertain any of them. It was his condition.

"Remember when I asked you if you believed in Moirai... the Parcae?" I don't realize my mouth is wide open until his forefinger slides under my chin and closes it with a chuckle.

There are instances in life where a man must realize it's impossible to fight fate. This is my instance. I have no desire to risk losing the treasure that has ultimately fallen right into my hands again.

I swallow and nod. We were in Bryant Park. It was the first time he had kissed me in eleven years.

"Meeting that night was fate. Not Selene deciding to play cupid. We were bound to meet. You were going to chase me and make me yours even if it were just to make my life hell later." A helpless smile spreads on my face as I speak in realization.

"I had no plans to marry you, though when we did meet. I just wanted it to be a fling. I wanted to watch you shatter as I crushed your hopes after giving you reasons to feel hopeful. Of course that was me ridiculing myself," he supplies, surprising me. His thumb strokes my pulse point as his eyes burn in mine. "You turned out to be more than an ache. Made me confront things I wanted to avoid for the rest of my life. Showed me the aspects of myself I didn't want to face."

"You hated it. Hated how my love for you stripped you down to your rawest form."

"I did."

"That's why you kept up the pretense of needing me never to cross the boundary you kept forging between us. You pushed me away for the very same reason. But nothing could keep you away from me because it was your fate to be mine. Just like I was born to be yours. Do you know how much I love you? Even though I am annoyed you wouldn't answer any of my questions regarding the note?"

A beautiful smile appears on his face, the one that travels to his eyes, lighting it up with so much love, so much reverence—for me. Only for me. Always for me.

He removes his hand that has been holding me since we arrived here, it's slick with sweat as he keeps it against my cheek to hold my face between his palms. "I love you too, my beautiful chaos, wife. My sweet little torment. You're maddening and infuriating, but I would have it no other way."

And just like that, my husband tilts my world off its axis once again, just like he has done since that night when he found me on the street.

💗💗💗

My husband is force-feeding me a last piece of Marjolaine because I've barely eaten even the salad when we're interrupted by a sudden commotion on the table beside ours that has been marked reserved since before our arrival.

My eyes fly wide so does the person's who has appeared on the reserved table, causing the commotion.

It's Calliope in a fuchsia cocktail party dress.

Her mouth parts in a big O. I am expecting her to smile but somehow she appears taken aback by surprise—and not a good one. Her pale complexion flushes and her emerald gaze–the exact same one as mine—turns muted, almost appearing grayish. My husband and people who know me have always noted that it happens to mine when I'm stressed or anxious.

She was so chirpy and ecstatic around my husband so it can't be him responsible for her surprising behavior. Nor am I—I know that for sure.

We're now Instagram and TikTok buddies. We don't chit-chat per se, but we're either swapping animal videos, recipe videos, and the original Sex and The City series videos. She likes all my posts and comments on them and I like hers.

As if snapping out of whatever is going on in her mind, she waves at Areston and offers me a smile. I jump off my seat and hug her. My hand entwined with my husband's since the start remains the exact way because he refuses to let me part.

Absolutely unbothered by how it might appear in public.

He remains seated while Calliope and I exchange a hug. Rude. Someone needs to teach him some social skills—and I know that someone has to be me because there's no one else who can make him do anything, except for moi—even though I am not able to do it all the time. It's always dependent on his mood to accommodate my nagging.

"This is like a great coincidence, Cali!"

She pulls out her phone and types. "I know, right? What are the chances? Today's my mother's birthday and luckily she's back from Botswana for a week. She loves French cuisine so I thought I'd surprise her by bringing her here. No French restaurant in the country can beat this one. Reservations are three months in advance at this place—that too you can manage only by sheer luck or if you pull some strings. Mine was luck of course. She's in the restroom. Wanted to wash off the chartered helicopter dirt."

It feels like she's trying to subtly tell me that she didn't do it on purpose and I believe her. Who could have known my severely antisocial husband would become jealous of her mother-in-law and decide to do something extremely surprising like bring me to a public restaurant that he hasn't entirely booked for a date night. Because if mama can change her preferences, why can't he, considering how fiercely competitive he gets when she's involved. Now, I understand why Calliope looked stressed. I knew it. I knew she's aware of the relationship Areston shares with her adoptive mother.

Althea is here and so is Areston. It's her birthday. Oh, my goodness!

I suck in a deep breath and put my free hand over my throat that suddenly feels parched. Calliope realizes what I'm feeling and gives me a small knowing smile.

She signs something to Areston whose hand has tightened over mine.

"Adopted any animals on the way?" He doesn't smile as he asks the question, but I sense the warmth even in his apathetic tone as he returns the fork in the four o'clock position on the right rim of the plate with its tines facing upward.

Calliope shakes her head in response to his question with a smile. She understands how something so simple is so meaningful coming from him. While he acts aloof and unbothered, he knows she's fond of animals and adopts every stray she comes across. She makes them popular by sharing them on her social handles and then donates them to the interested fans because her busy, jet-setting schedule doesn't allow her to take care of them.

The server comes and asks us if we'd like to join the tables. Both Calliope and I freeze. My husband doesn't respond. He simply doesn't care how rude it appears. For him to feel that way, he needs to be able to have emotions and he has none for anyone beside me. Or chooses not to feel because it isn't worth his time.

"Sure." I end up saying, dreading how his reaction is going to be when Althea joins us.

I settle in my seat and Calliope is about to when someone appears behind her.

Althea Grosvenor.

"There you are, sweet pea," she says in her posh British accent that still sounds the same after a decade of hearing it, completely oblivious of us. "Manhattan people think they're royals of some kind. Obnoxious people. We could have stayed home instead of flying all the way down here. You know I prefer the Boeuf Bourguignon you cook over any other food item. That would have been the best celebration. There's no chef that can beat my daughter's cooking style."

If I didn't know for certain that this woman is Althea Grosvenor, I would have never believed it's her.

She's not draped in diamonds like she loved to.

She's not wearing some red-hot dress that steals people's attention without her even trying. It's a simple belted mid-length black dress.

She has no makeup on.

Her hair is no longer dark and loose as she preferred. They're gray. All of them. Tied up in a bun.

And she has aged. Not like one would have expected a person so obsessed with her appearance like her to. The laugh lines, the deep eye wrinkles, the forehead lines... that's the face of a woman that hasn't stepped a foot in a cosmetologist's office and yet she still looks so utterly beautiful. Just as she did.

And then her attention shifts to us and she gasps audibly as the recognition sinks in.

In a complete catalytic reaction, my eyes turn to my husband only to find him absolutely detached, with no expression and a muted gaze at the woman he considered his mother for 19 years.

The depths of cerulean stare—perpetually unreadable and glacial–are utterly devoid of any sense of familiarity. There's no flicker of wrath, no glimmer of agony, not even a trace of disgust in those eyes I thought might be present when he comes face-to-face with Althea for the first time in over a decade.

He's simply regarding her, as if she's a stranger. Not even that. Something much worse. Much worse than palpable indifference.

The grip of his entwined fingers in mine remains as steady, as unyielding as they've been. They don't even tighten, not even in a small or almost imperceptible gesture that can tell me he's not an unfeeling stone, but a human capable of experiencing emotions upon seeing this woman he used to be so close to and love once. Nope. His posture is absolutely at ease, as if this moment is no big deal at all. Holds zero significance for him. It only goes on to demonstrate the kind of resolute and apathetic my husband is apart from the time when I am concerned.

A realization dawns upon me.

He is not the son looking forward to an emotional confrontation. Or expecting anything at all. He is not even hiding unspoken emotions in the depth of his heart. He just doesn't... feel anything at all.

He is done.

This is a man who has gotten the closure he needed.

If I hadn't started finally understanding the enigma he is to an extent, I would've considered I am wrong, but I do understand him and I know I am not wrong. This moment of her seeing him and feeling what her betrayal and lies has turned him into as a consequence, was all he needed.

For months, ever since we met, I thought he might still harbor a hidden longing for this woman who used to be his mother. Every time he would pause before addressing her as Althea instead of mother whenever her mention came into conversation, it used to make me think that it's because he deep down still considers her his mother. I was severely deluded in my own fairytale ideas to have concluded that.

Seeing him now, I finally understand.

It wasn't because of his feelings for her. But habit—a habit he loathes. All that I mistook as his feelings for her was just my stupid optimistic brain. All he needed was closure. Now, he has gotten it.

The love, the wrath, the agony, the hurt—it never really existed.

Even if it did in fragments, it has evaporated leaving no trace behind. Their past together has no hold over him anymore. With her appearance tonight, whatever was left in him from the past that bound them in some manner, has finally departed.

I stare at him as his unwavering gaze remains fixed on her, and I witness the absolute, undeterrable truth—he has dismissed her even before assessing or judging her. He doesn't need words to convey it, his inaction, or rather his powerful silence, conveys it all.

Althea Grosvenor does not exist for him now. She's not even a ghost. Or a relic from his past. Her presence here tonight is a final note to the chapter that ended for him eleven years ago.

He wasn't just trying to trick himself when he admitted he has moved on from her—he has. He just needed her to see him once. That's why he started looking for her. He wanted to put it all behind in every sense and now he has.

He has severed all the emotional ties that bound him to the woman—and I can finally see what he truly sees her as—the woman who stole him from his mother, brothers, father, grandparents, and uncle. Who made him live a lie.

Whatever I deluded myself into thinking he felt for her regardless of my mind saying I was mistaken, was truly my sheer naivety as my brother never misses pointing out. The realization is chilling to the bones. I don't know how to feel about it.

I turn my head to find Calliope's eyes bouncing between the three of us. She's clueless how to react and what to perceive of this situation, but I know she's not having a good feeling about it. Her expressions are a telltale that even she can feel the palpable chill in the atmosphere.

My heart clenches with pain as I stare at the woman who always championed my relationship with her son, wanted me to wear her ring when I married her son, made me feel more than just an heir to the Rothschild empire, understood my pain even though there was nothing she could do about it, and most above all, gave me the man I cannot imagine existing without. Regardless of everything, I have always wanted to reunite her with her son as a token of gratitude for bringing him into my life, but now I understand how it could have backfired if I'd tried.

Areston doesn't want it.

Every fiber of my existence mourns a lost chance to mend their relationship. I know—and I just know—that there's no scope of mending from this point.

I grab the linen napkin, dab it on the corner of my mouth, and return it to the left of my plate.

Inhaling deeply, I force a smile on my face. "Hi," I get off my chair and stretch my arm for a handshake. "I am Juliette De L'Aquila."

Despite the surprise that seems to have struck her, a satisfied smile appears on her face—it's a smile that people who've been the closest to you offer when they learn about you having achieved your lifelong dream.

She takes my hand and places another one on top of it as if she needs it. "Althea Grosvenor."

"Calli... I apologize, but we have to leave. I forgot my husband and I have somewhere else to be. You have a great evening with your mother. Happy birthday, Ma'am."

I turn my head to find my husband regarding me.

There's a kind of amusement dancing in his gaze.

He isn't messing with me when he says he has no heart for others. I now know for certain that he is right.

He hates it when he watches me slip into 'fakeness' as my brother calls it in situations like this just because I cannot be cold and disrespectful to people I am close to, but right now it's pleasing him.

He is able to sense the turmoil going on inside me and the pain from having my hopes gotten crushed like a wall of glass, and being the cold jerk he is, he's enjoying watching it.

He loathes when I try to be too optimistic about situations he warns me against. That mirthful gleam in his eyes is his way of mocking me for finally realizing the truth after all this time—the truth my naivety did not allow me to see.

How was the chapter?

Your most favorite part?

Your second most favorite part?

Do you think his reaction to Althea is justified given his nature?