Chapter 57
The next morning, things somehow managed to get even worse.
Graham woke before dawn, the room still bathed in muted gray light. Isla was curled into a tight ball beside him, her face half-buried in the pillow, breathing soft and shallow. For a long moment, he just watched her. The faint freckles on her nose, the delicate rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the duvet—so familiar, yet so far away.
He leaned over and, with more gentleness than he thought himself capable of, pressed his lips to her forehead. "Good morning, sweetheart," he murmured.
The reaction was instant.
Her eyes shot open, wide and startled. She gasped—actually gasped—and scrambled backward like he was something monstrous. The sheets tangled around her legs as she twisted herself free and practically stumbled off the side of the bed.
Graham sat there, stunned, as she pressed herself against the wall. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. Her gaze darted from him to the door like a cornered animal.
"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, voice trembling. And then she bolted.
The bedroom door slammed behind her, leaving only the ghost of her fear hanging in the air.
Graham exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. The warmth of her skin from that single kiss lingered faintly on his lips. His jaw tightened, and he rubbed it roughly with one hand, trying to scrub away the unfamiliar sensation clawing through his chest.
She acted like I was going to attack her.
The thought lodged itself like a shard of glass in his ribs.
He forced himself to get up, shower, and go about his morning. But the image of Isla’s wide, terrified eyes haunted him.
At breakfast, things were no better. Isla sat stiffly across from him, her hands clasped in her lap. When she did glance his way, it was with a tight, nervous smile that disappeared as quickly as it appeared. And for the rest of the meal, she stared at her plate like it might offer her an escape.
Graham tried. God help him, he tried. He asked her about her sleep, about the books she liked to read, even about the damned weather. Each time, she answered in monosyllables and then fell silent again.
He clenched his fork so tightly it bent.
By midafternoon, his patience was fraying. He left his study to go downstairs, and as he stepped into the hallway, he saw her at the bannister.
Perfect.
He straightened and walked toward her. Isla’s head jerked up when she saw him.
As they passed each other, his hand brushed lightly against hers on the polished wood railing. It was the smallest, most innocent touch.
She recoiled like she'd been scorched. Her hand yanked away so fast she nearly lost her balance. Her eyes—those dark eyes he'd once found mesmerizing—widened in startled fear.
"S-sorry!" she squeaked, her voice cracking. Then she spun around and practically ran up the stairs, disappearing down the hall.
Graham stood there, frozen. His hand still hovered over the bannister where hers had been.
His chest ached in a way he didn’t know how to describe. He turned and went back into his study, slamming the door behind him.
He threw himself into his work, but the numbers on the papers blurred. The only thing he saw was her terrified expression. Her retreating back. Her hand pulling away from his like his touch was poison.
She’s scared of me.
The realization settled over him like ice water.
My own wife is scared of me.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. The heaviness pressed harder against his ribs with every breath. His mind spiraled into places he didn’t want to go, to words he didn’t want to think.
She makes me feel like a… He stopped, swallowed hard, and gritted his teeth.
But the word was already there. Ugly. Unshakable.
A rapist.
Dinner was no better. Isla sat as far from him as possible, barely touching her food. Her eyes stayed fixed on her plate. Every time he tried to talk to her, she either gave him clipped, meaningless answers or pretended she hadn't heard him.
When their hands accidentally brushed as she passed him the salt, she flinched again. His hand twitched with the urge to throw the glass shaker against the wall just to break the suffocating tension. But he didn’t. He forced himself to smile instead.
By the time night fell, Graham was done. Done with her fear. Done with the unbearable silence. Done with feeling like the villain in his own marriage.
When he climbed into bed that night, Isla was already there, curled on her side beneath the covers. Her back was to him, as always. The blanket rose and fell with her breaths—fast, too fast to be sleep.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The distance between them on the bed was no more than half a foot, but it might as well have been a canyon.
The worst part wasn’t the silence. It wasn’t the distance.
It was knowing that when she'd married him, she'd looked at him like he was her world. And now, after one night, she looked at him like he was her nightmare.
She's making me hate myself.
He clenched his fists beneath the sheets.
And God help him, if this was what married life was going to be like—living with a woman who recoiled from his touch, who acted like he'd violated her beyond repair—he didn’t know how much more of it he could take.
On the fifth morning, Graham left the house.
He didn’t have a destination in mind—just the overwhelming need to escape the suffocating air that clung to Thornfield Manor like a heavy, wet cloth. The awkwardness. The tension. The unbearable silence. He told himself he just needed fresh air. A change of scenery.
But who the hell was he kidding?
He left because he could no longer stand to look at her.
The fragile, broken woman who flinched at his touch. The same woman who had once smiled when he sneaked into her room at midnight, her cheeks flushed, eyes alight with something that made him want to tear the world apart to get to her. Now, she recoiled like he was something vile. And he didn’t understand it.
How could he, when she didn’t understand it herself?
That morning had been the last straw.
It had been the same, painful routine: the two of them sitting at opposite ends of the breakfast table like strangers forced to dine together. Graham had reached for the coffee jug at the exact moment Isla did. Their fingers brushed.
That fleeting touch. Her gasp. Her sharp withdrawal, hand yanked back as though he’d burned her.
His jaw had clenched so tightly he felt his teeth groan beneath the pressure. The muscles in his neck strained. His pulse roared in his ears.
He remembered the exact moment the anger struck him—hot, sharp, and vicious.
He’d gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. Because at that moment, he saw only two options:
Either he was going to slam her against the wall and show her what real pain felt like…
…or he was going to wrap his hands around her delicate throat and snap it in half.
The thought had terrified him.
So he stood, threw his napkin onto the table, and walked out the door without another word.