Chapter 3

Claire Keller POV:

He cancelled all his remaining meetings for the day. That was rare. Then he invited me to join him for the afternoon festival, a local tradition he usually dismissed as "too provincial." He was trying too hard, a desperate attempt to patch over the cracks he didn' t even realize I' d seen. Callan was trying to be the devoted husband, the one the world adored.

The festival market was a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, a stark contrast to the austere grandeur of the Drake estate. Stalls overflowed with hand-woven silks, exotic spices, and trinkets that sparkled under the afternoon sun. The air hummed with laughter and the melodic strums of a traditional lute. A tiny spark of excitement, a ghost of my former self, flickered within me. I allowed myself to feel it, just for a moment, a bittersweet taste of the life I' d given up for him.

I remembered how I used to pore over ancient texts, how I' d spend hours in dusty archives, my fingers tracing the faded lines of forgotten histories. My life before Callan had been quiet, filled with the pursuit of beauty and knowledge. He had swept me up in a whirlwind of luxury and public adoration, convincing me that my quiet passions were secondary to our shared, grand narrative. But soon, very soon, I would be free to explore those lost parts of myself again.

Callan' s hand was a possessive weight at my lower back, guiding me through the throng. He' d pause occasionally, adjusting the intricate obsidian earrings he'd given me, or smoothing a stray strand of hair from my face. Each touch, once a comfort, now felt like a brand, searing into my skin. He was marking his territory, publicly staking his claim on me, the ultimate trophy wife.

A small child, no older than seven, approached us, her eyes wide with reverence. She bowed deeply to Callan, then offered him a delicate lotus blossom, its petals glowing with a soft, ethereal light.

"For the lord and his lady," she chirped, her voice like tinkling bells. "They say this is the flower of eternal love, Lord Drake. It shines brightest for those whose bond is true."

A jolt ran through me. Eternal love. True bond. The words were a mockery. My hand instinctively reached out to push the flower away, a desperate need to reject the false symbolism.

But Callan, ever the showman, chuckled. He took the blossom, his gaze softening as he examined its glowing petals. "Indeed," he murmured, "a beautiful sentiment." He turned to the child, a charming smile on his face. "Tell me, little one, do you have more of these?"

The child nodded eagerly. "Many, my lord! Beneath the willow tree by the old stream."

"Then I shall buy them all," Callan declared, pulling out a pouch heavy with gold coins. "Every last one. For my wife, of course. For our eternal love."

"No!" The word burst from my lips, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the festive din like a knife. The sudden sound made Callan pause, his head tilting in confusion.

I forced myself to breathe, to push down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. My hand, still outstretched, stopped him. The gesture was firm, a barrier between him and the child.

He turned to me, his brow furrowed. "Claire? What is it, my love? You always adored these blossoms. You said they reminded you of the ancient art you loved so much."

My voice was stiff, remote. "I don't. Not anymore."

"I don't like them anymore." The words hung in the air, cold and definitive. It was more than just a flower. It was a rejection of everything he claimed it represented, everything he had broken.

The smile on Callan' s face faltered, replaced by a flicker of something I couldn' t quite decipher.