8

Valeria stumbled out of the room, her tears blurring her vision as she clutched the folds of her dress tightly, as if grounding herself from completely falling apart. The air in the corridor felt heavy, oppressive, and it pressed down on her as she walked aimlessly, trying to steady her uneven breaths.

She reached the end of the hallway and leaned against the cool stone wall, her sobs breaking free in quiet gasps. Each tear felt like a piece of her heart spilling out, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. The raw wound Markus had left with his words and actions was too fresh, too deep. “Why does he hate me so much? she thought miserably. Why won’t he let me in?”

Back in the room, Markus remained seated on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, his posture rigid. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, but his expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil simmering beneath his stoic façade. His jaw clenched as his gaze fell to the shattered porcelain and the mess of soup splattered on the wall and floor.

The silence around him was deafening, and the lingering scent of the soup—a gesture of care he had cruelly dismissed—gnawed at his thoughts. For a moment, his fist tightened as if fighting something within himself, but he quickly shook it off, pushing the feelings down.

Reaching for the phone on the bedside table, he picked it up and punched in a number he knew by heart. The sharp tone of the ringing filled the room, cutting through the suffocating quiet. 

After a few moments, the call connected, and a deep voice answered from the other end. “Markus uncle,” the man said, his tone calm but edged with curiosity. “This is unexpected.”

“I need you to come,” Markus said, his voice low but firm. “Soon.” The man on the other end paused, as though processing the urgency in Markus’s tone. “What’s happened?”

Markus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll explain when you get here. Just… come. I can’t deal with this alone.” “Alright,” the man said after a moment, his tone laced with quiet assurance. “I’ll be there.”

Markus ended the call and set the phone down with more force than necessary. He leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes briefly as he let out a slow breath.

The echo of Valeria’s voice, pleading for him to try, still lingered in his mind. Her teary eyes and trembling hands had stirred something in him—a flicker of guilt or hesitation he refused to acknowledge.

Shoving the thought away, he clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “It doesn’t matter.” he told himself. “I have to stay in control. I can’t let her—” But the sentence remained unfinished in his mind, as though even he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he feared.

Meanwhile, down the hallway, Valeria found herself standing in front of the large windows overlooking the garden. The moonlight bathed her tear-streaked face as she stared out into the night, her heart aching in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

She had come to this manor hoping for a new beginning, a chance to create a life filled with love and partnership. But Markus’s walls felt impenetrable, and she wondered how much more her heart could endure before it shattered completely.

Yet, even as despair threatened to consume her, a small, flickering ember of determination remained. “I’ll find a way.” she thought, though her resolve felt fragile in the face of his rejection. “I’ll find a way to reach him. I have to.”

Valeria wiped her tears hastily as she made her way down the corridor, but her red, swollen eyes were a testament to the turmoil within her. She didn’t notice Mrs. Stella standing near the grand staircase, observing her with a look of concern.

“Valeria?” Mrs. Stella called gently, her voice soft yet firm. Valeria froze, startled, and quickly turned her back to Mrs. Stella, attempting to compose herself. She took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress before turning to face her mother-in-law with a weak smile.

“Yes, Mrs. Stella?” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Mrs. Stella stepped closer, her brows furrowed as she took in Valeria’s tear-streaked face. “You’ve been crying,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It’s nothing,” Valeria lied, her voice trembling. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll go to my room and rest.” Mrs. Stella’s expression softened, but her eyes glinted with quiet determination. She reached out and gently touched Valeria’s shoulder. “Rest, my dear,” she said kindly. “But don’t lose hope. Things will work out, I promise.”

Valeria gave a faint nod, her lips curving into a weak, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured before continuing down the hall. Mrs. Stella watched her retreating figure for a moment, her jaw tightening as her expression turned steely. She straightened her shoulders and turned toward Markus’s room with purposeful strides.

Markus sat on the edge of the bed, his head resting in his hands as he stared at the floor. The broken vase and soup on the wall remained untouched, a chaotic reflection of the tension in the room.

The door opened without a knock, and Mrs. Stella entered, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Markus looked up, his irritation flaring at the intrusion. “Mother, I’m not in the mood,” he said curtly, leaning back against the headboard.

“Well, too bad,” Mrs. Stella shot back, her voice sharp and unyielding as she closed the door behind her. She crossed her arms and fixed her son with a piercing stare. “Because I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say.”

Markus rolled his eyes, his frustration evident. “What now?” he muttered. Mrs. Stella took a step closer, her tone softening but no less firm. “I just saw Valeria,” she began. “She was crying, Markus. Crying because of you.”

Markus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze flickering away. “She is your wife,” Mrs. Stella continued, her voice steady. “Your legal wife. And whether you like it or not, it’s time you start treating her as such.”

“I didn’t ask for this marriage,” Markus retorted, his voice low and cold. “You arranged it. You brought her here.” He shouted. 

“I arranged it for your benefit,” Mrs. Stella shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Because I saw what you couldn’t—a woman who could stand by your side, support you, and bear your child. But you’re too stubborn to see it.”

Markus scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Child? She’s nothing but a reminder of everything I didn’t want i never wanted one. It is the invasion of my privacy, mother!”

Mrs. Stella took another step forward, her gaze unwavering. “She’s more than that, Markus. She’s kind, patient, and trying her best to make this work. And you? You’re tearing her apart because you refuse to let go of your pride.”

Markus’s hands curled into fists, his jaw clenching. “She doesn’t belong here,” he said through gritted teeth. “She belongs exactly where she is,” Mrs. Stella countered firmly. “She’s your wife, Markus. And the sooner you accept that, the better it will be for both of you. Stop pushing her away. Stop punishing her for things that aren’t her fault.”

Markus stood abruptly, his height looming over his mother as his frustration boiled over. “You think this is that simple?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I can just forget everything and pretend this is normal?”

“No, I don’t,” Mrs. Stella said, her voice softening. “But I do think you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try. Otherwise, you’re going to lose her. And if that happens, Markus, you’ll regret it more than you can imagine.”

The room fell silent, the tension between them palpable. Markus’s gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders tense as Mrs. Stella’s words hung heavily in the air.

Mrs. Stella took a step back, her expression softening. “Think about what I’ve said,” she said quietly before turning toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, glancing back at her son. “She deserves better, Markus. But so do you and she is the best.”

With that, she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Markus stood there for a long moment, his mother’s words echoing in his mind. He glanced at the mess he had made—the broken vase, the splattered soup—and felt an unfamiliar pang of guilt. For the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was the one who didn’t belong.

Markus sank back onto the edge of the bed, his mother’s words swirling in his mind like a storm he couldn’t outrun. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting with every passing second. The shattered vase and soup stain on the wall seemed to mock him, a visual reminder of his volatile emotions and the damage he’d caused.

“I have to end this,” he muttered to himself, his voice low but resolute. “There’s no point dragging this out any longer. If I can convince her to sign the divorce papers… I’ll make it worth her while. A big alimony sum. Enough to start over somewhere far away.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as he tried to map out his plan. Money. That’s the answer. She can’t possibly refuse if I make it generous enough.

Just as the thought solidified in his mind, a soft knock sounded on the door, and a young maid stepped in, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup.

“Mr. Markus,” the maid said hesitantly, her eyes darting nervously to the mess in the room. “Madam Valeria asked me to bring this to you.”

Markus’s head snapped up, his brow furrowing in surprise. He stared at the tray as if it were an alien object. “She… sent this?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

“Yes, sir,” the maid replied, nodding quickly. “She said you hadn’t eaten and insisted that you have something warm. She made sure it was prepared just the way you like.”

Markus’s jaw tightened, conflicting emotions flickering across his face. He glanced at the maid, then at the tray, as if deciding whether to accept it or send it back.

“Leave it on the table,” he said finally, his voice gruff. The maid hurried to place the tray on the bedside table, her movements careful and precise. She cast him a quick glance before retreating toward the door.

“If there’s anything else you need, sir, please let me know,” she said softly before stepping out and closing the door behind her. Markus sat in silence, staring at the bowl of soup as the faint aroma filled the room. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt heavy with meaning. He could almost see Valeria in the kitchen, her hands trembling as she prepared it, her tears likely still wet on her cheeks.

“Why is she still trying?” he wondered, his chest tightening inexplicably. “After everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done…” The plan he had been formulating just moments ago suddenly felt hollow. The thought of presenting her with divorce papers after she had gone out of her way to care for him—even after his cruelty—filled him with an unfamiliar pang of guilt.

For the first time, he felt a crack in the walls he had so meticulously built around himself. But he quickly pushed the thought aside, refusing to dwell on it. “It’s just soup,” he muttered to himself, trying to dismiss the gesture as insignificant. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t.