Chapter 4 : The First Sign

Day after day passed in heavy, echoing silence.

Each morning, Evelyne entered the grand dining hall to find the long table already set — gleaming silverware lined up like soldiers, white porcelain glinting beneath the chandelier’s cold light. Adrian would already be seated at the far end, his posture immaculate, eyes focused on the paper in his hands. He rarely looked up when she walked in, and if he did, it was only to offer a faint nod — courteous, but hollow.

“Good morning,” Evelyne would say softly, more out of habit than expectation.

“Morning,” Adrian would reply, his voice low and even, never lingering.

They sat with the entire table between them, the silence broken only by the clink of cutlery and the quiet murmur of the butler announcing the next course. The meals were exquisite — delicate poached eggs, warm bread, ripe fruit — yet Evelyne found little appetite for them.

She would push food around her plate, her mind adrift. Sometimes, she glanced at Adrian, wondering if he noticed the untouched toast or the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly when lifting her teacup.

He never asked.

After breakfast, Adrian rose with mechanical grace, folding his napkin and muttering a polite excuse. He left the room with quiet footsteps and a shut door — always a shut door — as he disappeared into his study. That sound had become a punctuation mark in her day. Final. Distant. Expected.

Evelyne remained behind for a few minutes longer, staring at the empty chair across from her. Then, with a quiet sigh, she too would rise, her hand brushing the edge of the table as if trying to hold onto something that had never truly been there.

The rest of the day unfolded like a series of empty frames.

She wandered the halls, fingers trailing along the wallpaper’s embossed patterns, memorizing turns and corners as if they might offer answers.

She read in the sunroom, where the golden light filtered through lace curtains, warming her skin. But the words on the page often blurred. She would find herself staring blankly, her thumb still tucked between the pages long after she had stopped reading.

Knitting came next — something to keep her hands busy. The soft yarn tangled often, and Evelyne lacked the heart to undo her mistakes. The growing pile of lopsided scarves and half-finished mittens sat in a basket near the fireplace like quiet witnesses to her restless thoughts.

Sometimes, she picked roses from the garden, choosing the pale pink ones that reminded her of her childhood home. She arranged them carefully in porcelain vases — one in the foyer, one in the parlor, one on the small table near Adrian’s study door. He never said a word about them, but she kept replacing them just the same, even when the petals drooped and no one seemed to notice.

It wasn’t loneliness that gnawed at her.

It was invisibility.

• Silent Night

At night, the silence grew even sharper — not just quiet, but pointed, like the space between two breaths held too long.

Their shared bedroom was a grand chamber filled with velvet drapes, polished wood, and a bed too wide for two people who barely knew how to look at each other. Evelyne often sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair slowly in the dim glow of a bedside lamp. The sound of the bristles moving through her hair was one of the only sounds that ever filled the room.

Adrian rarely came.

Most nights, he lingered elsewhere — the study, where the scent of scotch and parchment lingered long after he was gone, or sometimes the guest room down the hall. His absence was never explained. No excuses. No apologies. Just empty space and cold sheets.

Evelyne never asked why.

She would lie awake, staring at the carved ceiling, her hands clasped over her stomach. Some nights, she would hear his footsteps in the corridor, slow and uncertain, pausing outside the door as if debating whether to enter. Her heart would thrum in those moments, hopeful and afraid all at once.

But the door never opened.

Eventually, she stopped listening for him.

Instead, she turned to the window, watching moonlight cast pale silver across the floor. Her nightgown felt too thin against the chill, but she rarely reached for the extra blanket. She had grown used to the cold.

Sometimes, she left the lamp on longer than necessary — a small rebellion against the darkness.

They lived together, yes. But not in any way that mattered. It was like dwelling beside a locked door neither of them had the courage to unlock. The key had been lost, or maybe never given. And so they remained — two strangers, breathing the same air, sleeping beneath the same roof, yet moving through life like echoes of what should have been.

• Museum Invitation

One quiet afternoon, the delicate strains of a piano filled the sitting room, wrapping the air in soft melodies. Evelyne sat at the gleaming mahogany instrument near the tall arched window, her fingers gliding gently over the ivory keys. The notes she played were slow and thoughtful, echoing faintly against the high ceiling like a wistful memory.

Across the room, the Duchess sat in her favorite chair with a cup of steaming Earl Grey in hand, her posture graceful, eyes half-closed in quiet contentment.

“You play beautifully, my dear,” the Duchess said, her voice gentle.

“Thank you,” Evelyne replied, her gaze focused on the notes. “It helps to pass the time.”

Just then, a maid entered with a sealed letter. The Duchess opened it, a pleased smile touching her lips.

“Oh,” she murmured with a pleasant lift of her brows. “It’s an invitation from the Royal Museum. A private preview of their newest collection — a courtesy extended to the Sinclair family, of course.”

Evelyne’s music faltered ever so slightly at the mention. She had always loved the museum — its hushed galleries, towering canvases, and the feeling of stepping into another world. The piano fell silent, and she turned slightly in her seat, attentive.

“Your father-in-law and I, unfortunately, have engagements we cannot delay,” the Duchess continued, gently folding the letter. Then, after a moment’s pause, her gaze softened as it settled on Evelyne. “Why don’t you attend in our place, dear? And Adrian shall accompany you.”

Evelyne’s heart skipped a beat. The suggestion came so effortlessly, so naturally — and yet, her pulse quickened. An afternoon alone with Adrian, beyond the cold distance of their estate… The thought sent a nervous flutter through her chest.

“I… of course,” she answered softly, lowering her gaze to the piano keys. “If that is your wish, Your Grace.”

The Duchess nodded approvingly. “I believe a little change of scenery might do you both some good.”

Evelyne resumed playing, though now her fingers lingered more than they danced. The notes were quieter, hesitant — her thoughts no longer in the music, but already wandering ahead to what the day at the museum might hold.

• The Knock

That evening, the corridors of the estate were quiet, the kind of quiet that amplified every creaking floorboard and every breath. Evelyne stood outside Adrian’s study, her hand hovering just above the polished oak door. The lamplight from the wall sconces cast soft shadows across her face, catching the slight furrow in her brow.

She had rehearsed the words in her head. It was simple — a message from the Duchess, a scheduled outing. Nothing more. Yet her hand lingered in the air, unmoving, as if the door were not made of wood but of glass — transparent, but unbreakable.

Finally, she knocked — three gentle taps, barely louder than the rustle of a turning page.

A pause followed. Long enough to make her think he might ignore it.

Then his voice came, muffled, low and restrained. “Come in.”

Evelyne pushed the door open slowly. The room was bathed in the golden glow of lamplight.

Adrian sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, papers and leather-bound books laid out in rigid, precise rows. He held a fountain pen in one hand, the ink still fresh on the parchment in front of him. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and the fire behind him cast flickering light across his sharp profile.

He didn’t look up right away.

She stepped in, careful not to let the door creak too loudly as she closed it behind her.

“The Duchess has given instructions,” she began, her voice quiet but clear. “Tomorrow afternoon, we’re to go to the Royal Museum. There’s a new collection being unveiled. She asked us to represent the family in her place.”

Adrian finally looked up. His eyes — pale blue and unreadable — met hers without emotion. There was a flicker, perhaps, of hesitation, but it vanished too quickly to grasp.

He nodded once. “Very well.”

His tone was even, but distant, like someone acknowledging a calendar appointment. He returned to his pen, lifting it again with a mechanical grace, as if her presence had already been processed and filed away.

Evelyne lingered.

There was so much she could have said — about her love for art, about her gratitude, about the strangeness of sharing space with someone and still feeling invisible.

But none of it made it past her lips.

Her eyes lingered on his hands for a moment — ink-stained, steady, distant — and she wondered if they had ever trembled.

“I’ll be ready by noon,” she said finally, her voice almost a whisper.

Adrian didn’t respond. The scratch of his pen resumed, a quiet dismissal.

She turned, the soft rustle of her skirt the only sound she left behind, and closed the door with a care that felt more personal than it should have.

Outside, she paused for a heartbeat, her hand still resting on the handle.

She hadn’t expected warmth. But somehow, the cold still stung.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***