Chapter 7

Alyssa York POV:

Dayton' s ready agreement to stay at the mansion, after his outright refusal to attend the gala, sent a chill through me. It was so unlike him to be openly compliant. A chilling suspicion began to form. What was he playing at? Was this another one of his calculated moves? My heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

He caught my bewildered stare, a sardonic twist to his lips. "What, Alyssa? Surprised? I thought you were all about fulfilling family obligations." His words were a mocking challenge, designed to remind me of my own pronouncements.

Jerald Cole, however, beamed, clearly pleased. "Excellent, Dayton. That's the spirit. Alyssa, dear, why don't you join me in the garden? The roses are particularly lovely this time of year. Let Dayton handle some pressing business calls." He looked pointedly at his grandson. "And make sure those calls aren't to that... actress, Dayton. You have a wife who needs your attention."

Dayton's jaw tightened, but he merely nodded, a strained smile on his face. "Of course, Grandfather." He shot me a quick, unreadable glance before turning to leave, a silent command in his eyes: play along.

I spent the next hour in the sprawling rose garden with Jerald, listening to his stories of the family's past, admiring the vibrant blooms. His company was oddly comforting, a stark contrast to Dayton's icy presence. But even amidst the beauty, a part of me was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The forced calm felt brittle, ready to shatter.

When I finally returned to the main house, feeling emotionally drained, I sought refuge in the study, hoping for a few moments of solitude. I planned to slip away to my assigned guest room – a room I had once occupied during happier visits – before Dayton could find me.

But as I passed the library, a muffled voice caught my attention. Dayton' s voice. Low, urgent, and laced with a tenderness that sent a fresh wave of pain through me. "Kristin, you have to be careful. They're watching. Grandfather is... particularly displeased. Just lie low for a few more weeks. I'll handle everything." My blood ran cold. He was still in contact with her, still protecting her. Even here, under his grandfather's watchful eye. It was a constant, searing betrayal.

I froze, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, my heart pounding. He cared for her so deeply, so protectively. A surge of bitter jealousy, raw and ugly, twisted in my gut. He never spoke to me like that. Never showed me that kind of unwavering support. It was always business, always duty, always cold calculation.

I heard the click of the phone ending the call. I quickly composed myself, forcing a calm expression, and walked into the library. Dayton was standing by the large oak desk, his back to me, looking out the window. His shoulders seemed tense.

"Dayton," I said, my voice deliberately even. "Is everything alright?"

He turned, his eyes, usually so sharp, seemed distant, preoccupied. He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over my face. It was as if he was trying to decipher something, to read my thoughts. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features – frustration? Resentment?

"You seem... unusually concerned, Alyssa," he finally said, his voice quiet, almost a taunt. "Or perhaps you're just enjoying playing the worried wife?"

My jaw tightened. "I was merely asking a polite question. You looked troubled."

He scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Troubled? I'm simply dealing with the fallout of your PR management. It seems Grandfather isn't entirely convinced by our 'united front' if my phone habits are still under scrutiny." His eyes narrowed, a cold glint appearing. "And speaking of appearances, why are you still in that... demure little dress? Dinner is in an hour. Or are you planning to charm Grandfather with your newfound vulnerability?"

My cheeks flushed. He always knew how to hit a nerve. "This dress was your suggestion, Dayton," I reminded him, my voice dangerously low. "And I thought it perfectly suitable for a family dinner."

"It's suitable for a quiet afternoon tea," he countered, his voice sharp. "Not for a formal family gathering where every detail is scrutinized. Go change into something more... striking. Something that reminds everyone of the sophisticated Mrs. Cole, not the wilting flower." His words were a cruel inversion of his morning request, a deliberate attempt to assert control, to keep me off-balance.

He took a step closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the quiet room. He reached out, his fingers brushing my arm, a fleeting, almost electric touch that sent shivers down my spine. My breath hitched. My body, despite my best efforts, reacted to his proximity, a traitorous memory of past intimacy.

"You're a beautiful woman, Alyssa," he murmured, his voice low, almost seductive, but his eyes remained cold, calculating. "Don't forget that. Don't let yourself fade into the background. Grandfather expects a strong, confident woman by his grandson's side. Not a shadow." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Especially not when our 'marriage' is under such intense scrutiny. We need to look the part. Always." He pulled back, his hand dropping away as abruptly as it had appeared.

He turned and strode out of the library, leaving me alone, trembling, my emotions a chaotic storm. The unexpected compliment, mixed with his cold, manipulative tone, left me reeling. He wanted me to be beautiful, but only as an extension of him, a tool for his family's image. Not for myself. Not for me.

I felt a surge of raw exhaustion, a weariness that went bone-deep. I was tired of the games, tired of the lies, tired of this constant emotional battlefield. I just wanted it all to end. I walked to the window, staring out at the manicured gardens, my reflection a pale, ghost-like image in the glass.

Dayton returned later, finding me still in the library, staring blankly at a row of ancient books. He paused at the doorway, observing me for a moment before speaking. "Still here? Are you planning to make Grandfather wait for dinner?" His voice was sharp, impatient.

I turned slowly, my eyes meeting his. I had changed into a deep emerald green gown, a jewel-toned silk that clung to my figure, assertive and elegant. It was the opposite of "demure." It was the gown I had worn the night he had first told me he found me beautiful, years ago. I wanted to see his reaction.

He took a step back, a flash of surprise in his eyes. Then, his lips curled into a familiar, mocking smile. "Ah, the phoenix rises. Good. Grandfather will approve." He walked towards me, his gaze lingering. "You know, for someone so keen on ending this marriage, you do an excellent job of reminding me of what I'd be letting go of." He leaned in, his voice a low whisper. "Or perhaps that's the point, Alyssa? To make me regret it?"

My heart pounded. Was there a hint of a question there? Or just another one of his cruel games? I looked at him, my eyes filled with an unsettling clarity. "The point, Dayton," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, "is that I'm tired of being invisible. I'm tired of playing a role that isn't mine. And I'm tired of you."

His expression hardened, his eyes turning to ice. "Tired of me? Is that so? You seem to forget, Alyssa, you chose this. You married into this family." He stepped towards me, his hand reaching out, not to touch me, but to grasp the delicate silk of my gown, tracing the fabric with a detached, almost clinical touch. "Don't flatter yourself. Your theatrical displays mean nothing to me." His voice was a low, chilling whisper. "And don't forget who you are. And who you belong to. Until our three months are up, you are Mrs. Cole. You are my wife."

He dropped the fabric, his hand falling away as if scalded. He walked out, his steps echoing in the silent library. Left alone, I felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over me, a stinging heat that tightened my chest. He had seen through my defiance, had stripped it bare and mocked it. My carefully constructed strength felt fragile, crumbling.

I would not cry. Not here. Not now. I would not give him that satisfaction. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. I was stronger than this. I had to be.

Dinner was a tense affair, a silent battle waged across the polished mahogany table. I felt Dayton's gaze on me throughout, a burning intensity that made my skin prickle. He seemed to be actively avoiding engaging with me, yet his eyes constantly sought me out. After the meal, the family retired to the drawing room. Jerald Cole, ever the traditionalist, suggested a game of chess.

"Dayton, you play first with Albin," Jerald commanded. "And Alyssa, my dear, why don't you join me for a quiet chat by the fireplace?"

I nodded, grateful for the respite from Dayton's unsettling presence. As I walked towards the fireplace, I could feel Dayton's eyes on me. I tried to ignore it, focusing on Jerald's gentle questions about my architectural projects, my plans for the future.

Hours later, the mansion finally fell silent. I retreated to my assigned guest room, a cold, elegant space that felt miles away from the master suite. I changed into my silk nightgown, a fragile barrier against the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I yearned for my temporary apartment, for the freedom of my own space, away from his suffocating presence.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim me. But sleep wouldn't come. Every creak of the old house, every shuffle in the hallway, made my heart lurch. I knew Dayton was in the room down the hall, just a few feet away. The thought was both unsettling and strangely, deeply familiar.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the door. My breath hitched. It wasn't Dayton's knock. It was softer, more hesitant. I sat up, my heart pounding. "Who is it?" I whispered.

"Alyssa? It's Albin." His voice was low, concerned. "Are you alright? I saw Dayton leave the library earlier, and he seemed... agitated. I just wanted to check on you."

My heart softened slightly. Albin, always the watchful, kind presence. "I'm fine, Albin," I said, my voice still hushed. "Thank you for checking."

"Good," he said, and I heard his footsteps retreating. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A few minutes later, another knock. This time, it was louder, more assertive. My body tensed. I knew that knock. It was Dayton.

"Alyssa. Open the door." His voice was low, impatient.

I hesitated, then slowly rose and opened the door a crack. He stood there, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes dark and intense. He wore a silk robe, loosely tied, revealing a glimpse of his muscular chest. The sight sent a jolt through me, a primal reaction I hated.

"What is it, Dayton?" I asked, my voice tight.

He looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my nightgown, lingering for a moment. Then, his eyes met mine, a challenging glint in their depths. "Grandfather is still awake. He just walked past the master suite. He wants to ensure we're... upholding our end of the bargain." His voice was a low whisper, but the implication was clear. He wanted me to join him in the master bedroom.

My heart pounded. This was exactly what I had feared. The humiliation, the forced intimacy. "Dayton, this is too much," I protested, my voice trembling.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, gently pushing the door wider. "Is it? Or are you simply afraid, Alyssa? Afraid of what we both know is still there, between us?" His voice was a soft caress, but his eyes were hard, unwavering. "Don't deny it. You feel it too. The pull. The unfinished business."

My breath hitched. The words hit me like a physical blow, stirring dormant desires, forgotten longings. Could he truly feel it? Or was it just another manipulation? I wanted to scream, to push him away, to deny everything. But my body, betraying me, felt a sudden, inexplicable flutter. I was terrified, and yet, a part of me, a deeply buried part, yearned for it.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The air crackled with a dangerous tension. "Come on, wife," he murmured, his voice low, his eyes fixed on mine. "Let's give Grandfather a show he won't forget." He held out his hand, an invitation, a command.

I stared at his outstretched hand, then at his face, a mask of unreadable intensity. My heart was a battlefield, warring between pride, anger, fear, and a treacherous, undeniable spark of longing. I felt a knot of pure desperation form in my stomach. This was it. The ultimate step in this cruel performance. I finally knew what he was planning.

"This is not what I want," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, ignoring the hand.

He dropped his hand, a cold, mocking laugh escaping him. "Oh, I know what you want, Alyssa. You want me to beg. You want me to chase. You want to feel desired again." He took a step closer, his eyes burning into mine. "But I have no interest in playing your games. And certainly no interest in chasing after a woman who pretends to be indifferent to me. Not when there are others who truly need me." He turned and walked to the door, his hand already on the knob.

My heart shattered, a thousand tiny pieces falling into an abyss. "Fine," I choked out, a raw, desperate sound. "Do whatever you want. I don't care."

He paused, his back to me. "Good. Because I certainly don't care what you want." He pulled a thick, plush blanket off the chair beside the door, tossing it onto the floor with a thud. "You can sleep there. I'll take the bed. After all," he said, turning to face me, his eyes cold and hard, "I doubt Grandfather would appreciate me sharing a bed with a woman who clearly has no desire for me." He lay down on the bed, turning his back to me, pulling the covers over himself.

I stood there, frozen, the cruel words echoing in my ears. He was right. He had no desire for me. And I, fool that I was, still had a flicker of something for him. The humiliation was a physical ache, deep and suffocating. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold my shattered pieces together. I sank onto the floor, pulling the plush blanket around me, a futile attempt to ward off the emotional chill.

It was a long, cold night. I finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, my body aching, my heart heavy.

In the deepest hours of the night, I felt a familiar warmth beside me, a subtle shift on the makeshift bed on the floor. A strong arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer. I stiffened, my eyes snapping open, but a sense of lethargy, almost like a dream, held me captive. The scent of his familiar cologne enveloped me, a comfort and a torment all at once. His breath stirred my hair, and I felt the gentle pressure of his lips against my temple. It was fleeting, barely there, but undeniably real. I wanted to cling to it, to believe it was genuine, but years of pain had taught me better. It was just a dream, a figment of my aching heart. I forced my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, my body rigid, my heart pounding.

I woke with a gasp, the first rays of dawn staining the room a pale gold. I was alone. The blanket lay discarded beside me, the space beside me empty. He was gone. My heart sank, a familiar emptiness settling in.

I reached for my phone, a sense of dread washing over me. There it was. Kristin's latest post. A photo of a sunrise, captioned: "New day, new beginnings. So grateful for the quiet moments that heal."

He was with her. Again. And I was left, once again, with the cold, hard truth of his indifference. The three months felt like an eternity.