Chapter 10 Chapter : 10

Chapter 10 Chapter : 10
Arthur left before dawn.
There was no goodbye. No quiet knock on the door. No pause that suggested hesitation. Just the faint sound of footsteps moving down the corridor to corridor, the low murmur of a door opening somewhere far away, and then the soft, final click of it closing.
The house exhaled after that.
Lydia didn't wake when he left. She only knew, later, that he had been gone long before the sun rose. She had learned the rhythm of this place quickly. Men like Arthur didn't announce departures. They disappeared, and the world rearranged itself around their absence.
By afternoon, she sat at the long dining table with Gena, a plate of carefully prepared food resting in front of her. She hadn't touched it.
The room was warm. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching on polished wood and pale stone. Everything here was intentionall, comfort built deliberately into walls and furniture, softness layered over power.
It was the kind of room meant to make a woman feel protected.
Marcus stood a short distance away, near the doorway. Not looming. Not relaxed either. His presence was quiet, solid, like an unspoken rule.
Her phone vibrated against the table.
Arthur. She didn't rush to answer. She let it ring once more before picking it up, her movements unhurried. she was earing as well
"Yes?"
"I'll be away for two days," Arthur said. His voice was calm, clipped, stripped of anything unnecessary. "Out of the city."
"Okay." No question followed. No instinctive protest. Just acceptance.
There was a pause on the line, not emotional, not awkward. Calculating. Arthur was weighing something, deciding what needed to be said and what could be left unsaid.
"Marcus stays with you," he continued. "Everywhere."
Lydia leaned back slightly in her chair. The wood creaked faintly beneath her weight. She tipped her head back and let her gaze drift to the ceiling, exhaling through her nose. On the other end of the line, Arthur noticed.
"Don't do that." She straightened. "Do what?"
"That." Her eyes slid sideways to Marcus, who had suddenly developed a deep and intense interest in the far wall.
"...You're impossible," she muttered, more tired than irritated.
"You're not well yet," Arthur replied. "This isn't negotiable."
"I'm not fragile."
"I didn't say you were."
Silence settled between them. Not the kind that demanded filling. Just space neutral, restrained. Two people bound together by decision and consequence, still learning where the other one pushed back.
"I'll manage," Lydia said eventually. "I always do." Another pause.
Then, quieter than before, "Eat." She blinked.
"And call," Arthur added, as if the words cost him something small but real. "If you need something."
The line disconnected.
Lydia stared at the phone in her hand long after the screen went dark. Then she placed it carefully on the table, as if sudden movement might break whatever fragile order had just been restored.
Across from her, Gena had been watching the entire exchange. Not smiling. Not interfering. Just observing, eyes sharp with a mother's patience.
"He worries," Gena said at last. "In his own way." Lydia didn't respond. She picked at the edge of her plate instead, appetite still distant.
A few moments passed before Gena pushed her chair back and stood. "We're going out."
Lydia looked up slowly. "Out?"
"Lunch. Somewhere with noise and people and sunlight."
Marcus shifted immediately. "Mrs. Romero is still recovering."
Lydia turned her head toward him. She didn't glare. She didn't challenge. She simply looked at him tired, steady, unyielding all at the same time.
Marcus held her gaze. His jaw tightened. Then he let out a quiet breath. "I'll arrange security."
Gena smiled, clearly pleased. "She didn't even threaten you."
"I didn't need her to," Marcus muttered, already pulling his phone from his pocket as he stepped away. Lydia watched him go, a faint curve touching her lips before fading.
Gena leaned closer. "You make people bend without meaning to."
"I don't," Lydia said softly. "I just don't know how to pretend anymore."
"That," Gena replied, "is exactly why it works."
They rose together and then Lydia felt it. The shift. The pressure. The unmistakable sense of being seen. She turned.
Arora Romero stood near the archway, perfectly still. Her posture was rigid, her expression carved from something hard and old. She hadn't spoken. She hadn't interrupted.
She had simply watched.
Lydia met her gaze for a brief second long enough to acknowledge her presence, not long enough to invite anything else. Then she looked away. Gena noticed. The warmth in the room dimmed, not suddenly, but enough to be felt. And for the first time that day, Lydia understood that some silences were not neutral at all.
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Arora came that afternoon.
She didn't knock. She never had.
Gena was in her room, standing by the window, loosening the clasp of a necklace she'd worn all day. The light was fading outside, the sky turning that muted gray-blue that came just before night settled fully.
"I hear you've been parading the farmer's daughter around the house."
Gena didn't turn at first.
"She has a name, mother " she said calmly. "It's Lydia."
Arora scoffed. "Names don't change blood." That made Gena face her. Arora stood near the door, hands clasped in front of her, posture straight despite her age. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, as if Gena were still a young woman being judged for worth.
"You're getting too close," Arora continued. "You forget what she is."
"I haven't forgotten anything," Gena replied. "But you've clearly forgotten what I am."
Arora's lips thinned. "You were chosen because you were obedient."
"And punished the moment I stopped being useful," Gena said quietly. The air in the room thickened.
"You coddle her," Arora went on. "Invite her into our world. You speak of her as if she belongs."
"She does belong," Gena said, her voice firmer now. "She's Arthur's wife." She had enough of this. 
"She's the enemy's daughter." Gena laughed softly. Not amused. Tired.
"You said the same about me once," she said. "Different words. Same meaning."
Arora's gaze flickered. Just once.
"You never liked me," Gena continued. "From the moment I married your son, you treated me like an outsider. Like something temporary."
"That was different."
"No," Gena said. "It wasn't."
She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few steps away from Arora. "When I needed you—when I was young, and lost, and trying to learn how to survive in this family—you were never there."
Arora didn't answer.
"When I was learning how to be a wife in a house that ran on fear," Gena said. "When I was learning how to be a mother to a son who would grow into something dangerous... you watched. You judged. You never helped."
"That was the way," Arora said flatly.
"Your way," Gena corrected. "Not mine."
Silence stretched between them.
"I won't repeat that mistake," Gena said finally. "Lydia will not be made to feel small. Or disposable. Or unwanted." Arora's jaw tightened. "You think kindness will save her?"
"No," Gena replied. "But cruelty certainly won't." Arora stepped closer, her voice dropping. "She is still the enemy's blood. That truth doesn't change because you feel sentimental."
Gena held her ground. "And she is still a young woman thrown into a life she never chose." Arora turned toward the door.
"This softness will cost you," she said. "And it will cost her more." Then she left.
The door closed with a sharp, final sound. Gena stood alone in the room, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the back of a chair to steady herself. Her expression hardened, not into cruelty, but resolve.
"I will do better," she murmured to the empty room. And for the first time in years, she meant it.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The car ride that afternoon was quiet. Not uncomfortable and not heavy either.
Just... quiet.
The kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled, that existed on its own terms.
Lydia sat by the window, her shoulder resting lightly against the cool glass, watching the city drift past in soft, blurred colors. Buildings rose and fell, streets widened and narrowed, people moved in fragments, laughing here, arguing there, lives continuing without any awareness of hers.
Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass. She barely recognized the woman looking back at her.
Not the girl from the vineyards. Not the daughter who knew exactly where she belonged. Someone in between.
She didn't speak. For once, she didn't feel the urge to explain herself, to soften the silence with words just to prove she was still there.
Beside her, Gena sat with practiced stillness, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture relaxed but dignified. Her gaze remained forward, unfocused, as if she were watching something far beyond the windshield.
Gena understood silence. She had lived in it long enough to know when it was fragile and when it was necessary.
Across from them, Marcus sat straight-backed, shoulders squared, his presence solid and unmoving. His eyes never stopped working. They flicked to mirrors, scanned the sidewalks, followed the lines of passing vehicles. Every sound had meaning to him. Every movement was weighed, evaluated, discarded or remembered.
He wasn't part of the quiet. He was guarding it. Lydia noticed the second car first. Then the third.
They stayed perfectly aligned, close enough to protect, far enough not to draw attention.
Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.
"Are they..." she began, then paused, choosing her words carefully. "Are they with us?"
Gena glanced briefly at the rearview mirror, her expression calm, almost fond. "Always," she said, as if stating a simple truth. Like gravity. Like breath. Lydia swallowed.
It wasn't fear that tightened her chest. It was realization. This wasn't a special precaution. This wasn't because she'd been ill, or because she was tired. This was her life now.
Marcus turned his head just enough to meet her gaze in the mirror. His voice was low, respectful. "Standard protocol, ma'am."
Ma'am. The word still felt strange when directed at her.
"For... lunch?" Lydia asked quietly.
Marcus didn't hesitate. "For you."
Something in his tone made it clear there would be no argument, no explanation beyond that. Lydia nodded slowly, letting it sink in. She wasn't afraid.
But she was no longer pretending she was untouched by the world Arthur lived in.
The cars continued forward, the city opening around them, and the silence settled again, deeper now, fuller.
This time, Lydia didn't try to push it away.
The car slowed as it turned off the main road, leaving behind the rush of traffic and noise. The street it entered felt older, cobbled stone beneath the tires, iron lamps glowing softly despite the lingering afternoon light. Ivy crept along the sides of tall buildings, and flowering trees arched overhead as though sheltering the road itself.
Lydia leaned closer to the window.
The restaurant came into view gradually, not announced by flashing signs or noise, but by presence. A restored heritage building stood at the corner, its stone walls warmed by golden light spilling through tall glass windows. Greenery draped the balconies and framed the entrance, leaves stirring gently in the breeze. From the outside, it looked less like a business and more like a secret kept carefully by the city.
Her breath caught.
"Oh," she whispered, the sound barely there.
Gena followed her gaze, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Lydia nodded slowly. "I've never seen a place like this," she said, and this time she didn't soften the truth. There was wonder in her voice, but also disbelief, as if she wasn't sure she was allowed to be here.
The car came to a smooth stop.
Marcus was out first, his movements efficient and alert. His eyes swept the street, the entrance, the reflections in the glass. The second car pulled in behind them, and two guards stepped out seamlessly, positioning themselves near the door and across the street. To anyone passing by, they looked like men waiting for a table or checking their phones.
To Marcus, they were distance, coverage, escape routes.
Satisfied, for now, he opened Lydia's door himself.
She hesitated only a second before taking his hand. His grip was firm but careful, fingers warm, steady. There was no rush in the way he helped her out, no unnecessary pressure. It struck her then that everyone around her moved like this, controlled, measured, as if the world could tilt at any moment and they were prepared to catch it.
Gena stepped out beside her, completely at ease.
Inside, the air changed instantly.
Warmth wrapped around them, soft music playing low, the murmur of quiet conversation, the scent of herbs, citrus, and something rich and unfamiliar. The interior glowed with understated luxury: dark wood floors polished to a gentle sheen, stone columns softened by trailing plants, tables dressed in linen and candlelight rather than excess.
Lydia slowed without realizing it.
Her eyes moved everywhere at once, the artwork on the walls, the way light filtered through hanging glass fixtures, the elegance that didn't demand attention but earned it.
A man approached them, dressed simply but immaculately, his smile genuine. "Mrs. Romero," he greeted Gena, inclining his head with clear respect. Then he turned to Lydia, his expression warm but careful. "And you must be. "
"This is Lydia," Gena said, her voice steady. "My daughter-in-law."
The word landed softly, but it stayed.
The manager's expression shifted instantly. 
"Welcome," he said with quiet sincerity. "We're honored to have you."
He led them past the main dining area, where guests spoke in low tones and laughter never rose too high, and down a short corridor lined with framed photographs of the building's history. They stopped before a private room set slightly apart from the rest.
Inside, the space felt like an exhale.
Large windows overlooked a small garden courtyard, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. The table was already set, simple, elegant, untouched. Everything about the room felt intentional. Calm.
Marcus checked the corners before stepping back outside the door, positioning himself where he could see in through the glass without intruding. He didn't sit. He never did.
Lydia lowered herself into the chair, her body relaxing as if she hadn't realized how tense she'd been.
For a moment, she just looked around.
"This place..." she said quietly, a faint smile forming. "I should bring my family here sometime."
The words slipped out unguarded.
She froze.
The smile faded almost immediately, her gaze dropping to the table as the realization settled in. There was no family to bring. Not anymore. Not in the way she meant. She was sad.
The pain didn't crash, it pressed, slow and heavy. Gena noticed at once.
Her hand paused mid-motion before resting back in her lap. She didn't reach out. Didn't speak the words she knew Lydia didn't want to hear. She remembered the request. She honored it.
So instead, she simply stayed.
Watched Lydia with a gentleness that didn't ask anything of her.
Lydia swallowed. "I.... sorry. I didn't mean. "
"It's a lovely thought," Gena said softly, redirecting the moment without reopening the wound. "We'll enjoy it together."
Lydia nodded, grateful more than she could say.
As time passed, the tension eased. They spoke of small things, the garden outside, the food Gena recommended, the city beyond the windows. Nothing heavy. Nothing sharp. Just enough to remind Lydia what it felt like to sit at a table and not brace herself.
Outside, Marcus shifted his stance, eyes flicking to Lydia's reflection in the glass.
"She looks better," one of the guards murmured.
"For now," Marcus replied under his breath. "Stay sharp."
Inside, Lydia lifted her glass, hands steady again. She wasn't healed. But she was breathing. And for now. 
That was enough.
_______________________________________________________________________
Across the street from the restaurant, a dark sedan sat idle.
It had been there long enough to feel deliberate.
The engine was off. The windows were tinted just enough to soften faces without erasing them entirely. Inside, two men watched the entrance with patient, disciplined focus, the kind of attention that didn't hurry and didn't drift.
They weren't waiting for action.
They were waiting for confirmation.
One of the men leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze followed the movement near the entrance—the opening of doors, the brief flashes of light, the silhouettes passing in and out.
Across the street, a man stepped out of another vehicle.
Marcus.
He didn't look around too obviously. He never did. His presence alone shifted the air—straight-backed, controlled, already scanning reflections in glass and polished metal. Two guards moved with him, spacing themselves just enough to look accidental.
Patrolling.
Layered security.
Arthur's rules, even in his absence.
The men in the sedan noticed immediately.
"That's Romero's right hand," the second man murmured.
"Which means she's inside."
As if summoned by the thought, the restaurant doors opened again.
Lydia appeared for a brief moment before stepping fully inside.
She moved carefully, as though she was still learning how to exist under watchful eyes. Her head dipped slightly, hair falling forward before she tucked it back. Beside her walked Gena, unhurried, dignified, entirely at home in this world.
Marcus followed a step behind. Not touching. Not crowding. Watching everything.
Guards flanked them, subtle, clean, professional. To anyone else, they were just men. To trained eyes, they were a living perimeter.
"That's her," the first man said quietly. Not the farmer's daughter. Not anymore.
The second man lifted his phone, slower this time. He waited until Lydia disappeared fully inside, until the doors closed and reflections swallowed her shape.
Then he dialed. The call connected almost immediately.
"Yes?" The voice on the other end was calm. Amused. Awake.
"She's here," the man said. "Mrs. Romero."A pause. Not confusion.
Interest.
"With Gena Romero," he continued. "Security's tight. Marcus is patrolling." On the other end of the line, August stood by a tall window, the city spread beneath him. His shirt sleeves were rolled back, revealing relaxed strength. A cigarette rested between his fingers, smoke curling lazily upward.
"Mrs. Romero," August repeated, tasting the title.
Not Arthur's wife. Not the girl. Mrs. Romero. He smiled faintly.
"So that's what she looks like outside the house," he murmured.
He took a slow drag, eyes lifting toward the pale sky beyond the glass. "Tell me," he said casually, "does she look afraid?"
The man in the car glanced once more at the restaurant entrance. At Marcus pacing. At the quiet precision of the guards.
"No," he admitted. "Careful. But comfortable."
August chuckled softly. "Arthur's been gentle with her."
Smoke slipped from his lips as he turned away from the window, already reaching for the ashtray. "That won't last forever." He tapped the ash free, expression thoughtful rather than cruel.
"I've been meaning to meet her," August said lightly. "Mrs. Romero." A pause.
"Keep watching," he added. "No interference. Not yet." The line went dead.
Inside the sedan, the phone lowered slowly. The men returned to their silent vigil, eyes fixed on the restaurant that glowed warmly against the afternoon light.
Inside, Lydia laughed quietly at something Gena said, unaware of the name she now carried—or the interest it had sparked.
Across the street, Marcus continued his patrol.
And somewhere above the city, August decided that lunch would no longer be eaten alone.