CHAPTER 59
"Why are you here?" Graham’s voice cut through the air like a blade. The question was cold and sharp, his displeasure so obvious it was almost palpable. If anyone in the room had been in doubt about his feelings toward Marco’s presence, that doubt was now gone.
Marco, of course, being Marco, only smirked, unfazed by the hostility. "Och. And hello to you too, cousin," he said with a mock charm that only stoked Graham’s anger further. The wink Marco threw in didn’t help.
Without another word, Graham turned on his heel and stalked away, his strides long and rigid. He didn’t stop until he reached the sanctuary of his study, slamming the heavy wooden door shut and locking it behind him. The silence of the room was the only thing that kept his temper in check.
Breakfast that morning was—unsurprisingly—another grand affair. The dining table was laden with an impressive spread of dishes, a feast clearly made to impress. Isla’s eyes widened at the sight of it.
"It seems Maggie went all out for dinner tonight," she said, smiling warmly.
Marco grinned, his eyes twinkling with that same mischievous charm he always carried. "At least someone likes me in this house."
Maggie, their housekeeper, clicked her tongue disapprovingly at his teasing, but Isla laughed.
"That’s not true," she said with a fondness that made Graham’s stomach twist. "I like you, Marco."
It was an innocent enough statement—at least to Isla. But the effect it had on Graham was anything but mild. Because just as those words left her lips, Graham walked into the room.
He froze for half a heartbeat, his eyes immediately locking on the sight of his wife sitting far too comfortably next to Marco. She was smiling—smiling in a way she hadn’t smiled at him in days. A smile he had been craving, and here she was offering it so easily to someone else.
Marco stood, ever the charming guest, and approached Graham with that same infuriating ease. "Hello, cousin," he said, extending his hand.
This time, Graham didn’t brush him off. But his posture remained stiff, his jaw tight.
"I’m very sorry for your loss, Graham," Marco said, his voice taking on a rare note of sincerity. "I wish I could have been there for your father’s funeral."
Graham gave a curt nod. "My father always had a special place in his heart for you." The words dripped with sarcasm. The “special place” was clearly reserved for the kind of garbage you threw out and never thought of again.
Marco’s grin didn’t falter. "And congratulations on your marriage as well. I’m sorry I missed the wedding."
Graham’s smile was more a baring of teeth than anything warm. "You weren’t invited."
The words exploded like a shot across the room, and both Isla and Maggie jumped at the sheer force behind them. But Marco only chuckled.
"Fair enough," he said easily, as if Graham hadn’t just verbally tried to rip his head off. "Then again," Marco added, his eyes flickering toward Isla before landing back on Graham, "perhaps you didn’t invite me because you were afraid. After all, Isla’s liked me much more than she’s ever liked you. Since we were kids, wasn’t it?"
He winked at Isla then, and—God help her—she giggled. That soft, pretty sound she hadn’t made once in the days since their wedding. It grated against Graham’s nerves like nails on glass.
The second her eyes met his, though, her laughter died. Graham’s glare was ice-cold and cutting, his jaw visibly clenching.
But the damage had already been done.
The worst part was Isla had no idea why he was so angry. She didn’t understand the tension simmering beneath his skin, the storm raging inside him. Marco had always been like this—charming, teasing, always toeing the line of what was appropriate. To her, it was harmless. But to Graham, every smile she gave his cousin felt like a slap to the face.
And the moment Marco mentioned their childhood closeness, Graham’s control began to fray.
"Maybe she would have liked that better," Graham bit out, his voice low and shaking—not with rage, but something far worse.
Emotion.
Raw, searing emotion that threatened to spill over. And for the first time, Isla flinched—not out of fear, but because she suddenly realized just how deep this wound went.
Because in her mind, all of this—all his anger, his coldness, his distance—was still about that night.
Sex.
It all came back to that. Over and over again, the same point. She had hurt him by rejecting him in bed, and now he was punishing her for it in every possible way. She was angry too—furious, even. Didn’t she deserve some space? Some time to recover from everything that had happened? But Graham didn’t seem to care about that.
To him, it was always about the same thing. Sex.
And deep down, a darker thought whispered its way into her mind. Maybe that had been his reason for marrying her in the first place—desire. He had made no secret of how much he wanted her, how desperate he had been to have her in his bed. And now that his wishes hadn’t been fulfilled instantly, he was lashing out.
The thought stung more than it should have.
“Excuse me. I have to oversee the repair and maintenance of the footbridge at the canal. Maggie, don’t wait for me to serve lunch.” Graham’s voice was cool and detached, his eyes never once straying toward his wife. And without another word, he was gone—out of the room, out of her presence—without so much as a glance in her direction.
He didn’t come back until evening, after a long, grueling day of work. His muscles ached, his skin burned from the relentless sun, and his clothes were streaked with dirt and dust. He smelled of sweat and iron and the earth itself after hours of standing knee-deep in grime, overseeing the repairs on a bridge that served a house and land he had never even wanted.
But all of that faded when he stepped into the hallway and saw the scene unfolding outside the window.
There she was—his wife—walking arm in arm with Marco in the rose garden, the last slant of golden sunlight catching in her hair and making her glow. She was smiling—smiling in a way she never did when she was with him. The sound of her laughter drifted through the glass, soft and warm, the kind of sound he hadn’t heard from her since their wedding day.
And the most bitter irony of it all?
This was his bloody honeymoon.
His hands, still filthy from a day spent working to keep this estate running, curled into fists at his sides. The house—the land—the endless responsibilities of Thornfield Manor—he’d never wanted any of it. He never wanted to be tied down to this place, never wanted to spend his days sweating in the dirt to keep a crumbling estate afloat.
And yet here he was. Doing exactly what he had always sworn he wouldn’t.
For what?
He glanced down at himself—at his black trousers coated in dust, his dirt-smeared hands, the ache in his back from standing under the sun. Tomorrow would be more of the same: more digging, more grime, more exhaustion as they worked to clear the old, clogged wells that had been neglected since his father’s illness began. It was endless, thankless work. And he hated every second of it.
But when he looked back out the window, watching the woman who should have been by his side walking with another man—smiling for another man—he felt that familiar twist of rage and something far more dangerous.
Jealousy.
It burned through him, hot and fast, an ache in his chest so fierce it stole his breath. Marco had his easy charm, his ever-present smirk, and Graham hated him for it. He hated him because his wife—his wife—seemed to respond to it so easily. With Graham, she was cold and distant, always flinching away, always guarded. But with Marco? She laughed. She glowed.
The sun dipped lower, casting an orange hue across the sky, and the last of its light turned her face radiant. The reflection in her eyes shimmered like gold as she turned to say something to Marco, her expression open and relaxed in a way it never was with him.
And suddenly—painfully—he knew the answer to his earlier question.
Why was he here?
For her.
He loved her.
It was a sharp, undeniable truth, and it hit him like a blow. It explained everything—the anger, the jealousy, the bitterness he carried every time she pulled away from him. Because the only thing he had ever truly wanted—her—felt so far out of his reach.
And yet, here he was, tied to a house he never wanted and a life he despised, willing to endure every hardship and every ounce of backbreaking labor just to keep Thornfield running. Because if it made her happy—if it kept that light in her eyes—he would do it.
He would stand in the dirt and the sun for a thousand years. He would bleed and sweat and break his back every day without complaint. Hell, if it came to it, he would tear up every stone and every piece of gravel on this land with his bare hands just to keep her smiling.
Because now he knew—without a sliver of doubt—that there was no way out.
He was bound here. To this house. To this land. And most of all, to her.
Forever.