Chapter 27 Tired

Chapter 27 Tired


Chapter 27 — Susan’s POV

Lucien did not shout.

That was what scared me the most.

I had braced myself for anger, for raised voices, for the sharp edge of his temper. I had expected punishment to come loudly, painfully, in a way I could at least recognize. But none of that happened.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Tabitha was still on the floor, her body tilted slightly to the side, one hand holding her arm as if it pained her deeply. Her breathing was slow and careful, the kind people used when they wanted to appear fragile. Her lashes were wet. Her lips trembled faintly. Anyone who walked in without knowing the truth would believe she was the victim.

Lucien stood between us.

His eyes moved from her… to me.

He did not rush to me.

He did not ask if I was hurt.

He did not even study my face long enough to notice how pale I had become.

When his gaze settled on me, it was cold. Flat. Controlled. There was no confusion in it, no hesitation. Just quiet authority.

“Susan,” he said calmly.

Just my name.

No anger. No warmth.

My heart dropped into my stomach so suddenly I felt dizzy.

“Stand properly,” he added, as if he were correcting a child.

I straightened immediately, even though my knees trembled and my legs felt weak beneath me. My arms wrapped around my body without me realizing it, a reflex I had developed over time—like my body already knew I needed protection, even when none was coming.

Behind him, Tabitha sniffed softly.

“I didn’t mean to upset her,” she said in a weak voice. “I just wanted peace. I never imagined things would turn like this.”

Her words sounded gentle. Innocent.

Lucien did not respond to her.

Instead, he took one slow step toward me.

The sound of his shoe against the floor felt louder than it should have. Each step he took made the space around me shrink.

“This,” he said quietly, his voice even and measured, “will not happen again.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry, like I had been holding my breath for too long.

“Next time,” he continued, not raising his voice even slightly, “I won’t listen to explanations.”

That was all.

No slap.

No shouting.

No accusation.

Just that.

And somehow, it hurt more than everything else he had ever done to me.

The calmness of his words settled over me like a heavy weight. There was no room for defense in them. No space for truth. No chance to be heard.

I opened my mouth, my chest tight, desperation pushing at my ribs. “Lucien, I didn’t—”

He lifted his hand slightly.

Not aggressively. Not violently.

Just enough.

I stopped immediately.

“This is your last mistake,” he said. “Remember that.”

He did not threaten me loudly.

He did not insult me.

He did not need to.

He stated it like a fact. Like something already decided.

And in that moment, I understood something clearly for the first time.

He did not need to hurt me to control me.

He already had.

Lucien turned away from me as if I had lost my importance the second he finished speaking. He bent down and helped Tabitha up gently, his movements careful, his touch steady. His voice softened when he spoke to her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head weakly. “I’ll be fine… I don’t want trouble. I never do.”

As she spoke, her eyes flicked toward me for just a second.

They smiled.

Lucien guided her toward the door, his hand at her back, protective and sure. Before leaving, he paused and looked back at me one last time.

Not with anger.

With warning.

The door closed behind them.

The sound echoed through the room, hollow and final.

I stood there alone, my body frozen, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. The silence that followed was heavier than the confrontation itself.

That was when it hit me.

Clear.

Sharp.

Painful.

Lucien would never protect me.

Not now.

Not ever.

It did not matter that I had been humiliated.

It did not matter that I was exhausted.

It did not matter that something inside me was slowly breaking.

As long as the baby was safe… nothing else mattered to him.

I slowly lowered myself onto the bed, my strength suddenly gone. My hands moved to my stomach without thinking, resting there protectively.

He cares about you, my child, I thought bitterly.

Only you.

The realization burned deeper than anger ever could.

I had been foolish. Somewhere inside me, I had hoped—quietly, desperately—that one day he might see me. That he might understand how much I endured in silence. That maybe, just maybe, he would choose me over her.

But now I understood the truth.

I was not his wife.

I was not his partner.

I was not even his concern.

I was only a body carrying something that belonged to him.

Ownership.

That was all.

Tears slid down my face silently. I didn’t sob. I didn’t cry out. I didn’t scream.

I simply lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, letting the truth sink into my bones.

If I fell apart, he wouldn’t care.

If I was destroyed, he wouldn’t notice.

As long as the baby lived.

Something shifted inside me then.

Not anger.

Not hatred.

Acceptance.

A cold, heavy acceptance that pressed against my chest and changed the way I breathed.

I could no longer wait for protection.

I could no longer hope for kindness.

I had to survive.

Not for him.

Not for this house.

For myself.

And for the child he thought he already owned.