Chapter 48 He Actually Stayed for Dinner
Caroline realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that here, in this house, among the familiar faces—including Kenna—Edith's death was seen as nothing more than an unfortunate accident.
And she… she was simply a widow, weighed down by grief.
Alexander had never let the outside world glimpse what he had truly done to her. He had kept the old servants in the dark about the hatred that burned through him, about the cruelty he had inflicted. In their eyes, he was still the good husband—perhaps a man hardened by loss, but still dutiful enough to provide for his wife.
That awareness wrenched something deep inside her.
Was it relief? Perhaps. At least here she did not have to endure the suffocating stares that could strip a person bare.
Was it sorrow? Absolutely. This fragile calm was built on lies. It was like walking on thin ice, the cold water churning beneath, ready to pull her under again the moment the surface cracked.
And she had no choice but to play along, moving carefully across that ice, never knowing when it would shatter.
If they knew the truth—if they knew how Alexander had treated her, if they suspected her hands might truly be stained with blood—would they still look at her with that same soft pity?
She could not answer. She dared not even imagine it. The thought alone made her feel smaller, more pathetic.
She had seen Alexander's cruelty.
She had seen his tenderness too—though it had never belonged to her.
And now, she was seeing his false face, piece by piece.
It was like being stabbed through the heart with a spike of ice—cold, sharp, and merciless.
If she had seen this side of him sooner… maybe she would never have fallen for him. Maybe none of what followed would have happened.
But a voice in her head whispered that this might be wishful thinking.
His deceit might have been born because of her.
Even the smallest chance of that was enough to make her feel trapped. Regret was useless now. Regret for her choices, regret for the chain of events that had led to Edith's death—it changed nothing.
The truth was unalterable: Caroline would carry the weight of guilt forever, for Edith, and for whatever had existed between her and Alexander.
Kenna, seeing her still bowed and silent, felt a deeper ache of sympathy.
She guided Caroline to the small dining area outside the kitchen and eased her into a chair.
"Madam, please rest for a moment. Breakfast will be ready soon. Would you like something to drink? Hot milk? Juice?" Kenna's voice was soft, almost like she was soothing a child.
"You need to eat more, build your strength. The past is the past. We all have to keep moving forward."
Caroline sat with her fingers twisting at the hem of her clothes, her movements unconscious.
In the end, she only gave a small nod.
She lowered her gaze, pushing all the swirling emotions and the words she could never speak back down into the darkest corner of her heart.
Let them believe what they wanted. Let her breathe in this short, false calm… even if that breath was laced with self-deception.
The calm did not last long.
Alexander's footsteps came from the stairs—unhurried, yet carrying a natural weight that pressed into the room.
Caroline's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Her fingers tightened around the cup in her hands.
He descended without looking at anyone, walking straight to the head of the long dining table. He pulled out the heavy oak chair and sat down.
Kenna and the other maids immediately stopped what they were doing, arranging the lavish breakfast in front of him.
Caroline kept her head lowered, not daring to meet his eyes. What unsettled her most was what he did next.
He did not, as he had for most of the past five years, coldly order her to leave so he could eat alone.
He did not even glance at her. Instead, he picked up his knife and fork with an ease that made it seem perfectly natural, cutting into the eggs on his plate.
His movements were precise, his expression composed—like this was any ordinary breakfast between husband and wife.
It was the first time in five years.
Her heartbeat went wild, blood rushing to her head before turning to ice in the next instant. She forgot to breathe.
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
In those first years—when she still clung to some fragile hope—she had imagined moments like this. Sitting across from him as a real wife, sharing a simple breakfast, even in silence. She had memorized the foods he liked, planning to make them better next time. She had let her pulse race from a single look.
But those dreams had been crushed under years of humiliation and pain, buried alongside her guilt for Edith and her disgust for herself.
So now, as he sat across from her, calmly eating, she felt no joy. Only unease.
Why was he doing this?
Was it a whim, just to watch her squirm?
Was it because they were in his private estate, surrounded by old servants, and he needed to maintain appearances?
Or was it something worse—a more meticulous cruelty?
Was he letting her relax in the illusion of normalcy, only to destroy it when she began to hope again?
The unknown was more terrifying than the cruelty she already understood.
She sat as if on needles. The food had a savory smell, but it stirred no appetite.
Still, she could not remain frozen forever. She forced herself to pick up her knife and fork, steadying her trembling hands enough to cut into the eggs.
The blade slipped on the smooth porcelain plate, scraping with a sharp sound.
Each time it happened, her body jolted. Her head dipped lower, as if she could disappear into the chair.
She could feel the occasional cold glance from across the table.
Even without looking up, she knew his brows were drawn tight, his eyes filled with disdain.